Tracks of time, trails of memory

Sometimes, on languid afternoons, my thoughts start their own little train ride, not bound by timetables, but by memories. One such memory always arrives punctually: the train from Ambala to Jalandhar, winding its way through the golden heart of North India.

Back then, travel wasn’t about getting somewhere. It was about the in-betweens — saffron fields sunning themselves lazily, tractors kicking up earthy dreams, and farmers mid-choreographing in their harvest ballet. Temples and gurudwaras dotted the horizon like spiritual punctuation marks in Punjab’s scenic sentence.

We, kids, would launch a full-blown cold war for the window seat before the train even chugged in. I remember squinting at station signs like Phillaur and Goraya, the names smudging past before we could spell them — but some etched themselves on our hearts like henna on palms.

Our longer adventure — Ambala to Mumbai — was an epic, paisa-vasool production! Hills loomed, rivers slithered beneath wobbly bridges, and tunnels swallowed us and spat us out into fresh frames of India. Ratlam’s tangy chaats, Bhusaval’s bananas, and the divine vada pavs of Nashik zipped past. The red-turbaned porters strolled in stations, balancing luggage and dignity with equal flair.

Food was our universal language. I still remember a Gujarati couple generously offering us theplas in exchange for our spirited puri-aloo. Strangers transformed into snack-sharing soulmates, proving that train journeys were less about distance and more about delicious diplomacy.

The train was a place where bankers, barbers, and bored aunties shared the same samosa and scenery. It lived up to Agatha Christie’s words: “To travel by train is to see life.” Though she probably didn’t have to share her berth with a snoring uncle and a wayward tiffin.

Nightfall cast its own spell. The world outside flickered by like a dream: silent towns sending Morse code in fairy lights, the moon pacing our window loyally, and stars I knew by name from a library book — Cassiopeia, Orion, my celestial co-passengers. I’d wonder about the families in those distant homes, what stories brewed in their kitchens, and what lullabies rocked their babies to sleep.

Even now, the distant hoot of a train is enough to unlock the floodgates. One whistle, and I’m 12 again, clutching a foil-wrapped paratha, wide-eyed and slightly travel-sick but thrilled. Nostalgia arrives like an unreserved passenger — bringing with it the scent of steaming peanuts, the warmth of mom’s pickle-stuffed tiffin, and the rhythmic lullaby of steel on tracks.

Planes may be faster. You take off, you land, and boom, you’re done. No gurudwaras waving from the horizon, no uncles offering unsolicited political commentary, no toddlers playing peek-a-boo from upper berths. But trains take you back to who you were, where you laughed loudest, and how beautiful the journey really was.