chapter 18

The Train to PoughkeepsieDeepa and Ram saw us off at Syracuse railway station the next day. They had been lovely hosts, and Nandika’s company had been so refreshing, we were sorry to say goodbye. As we alighted, a cab zoomed in and A&A jumped out—perfect timing.I called Rajive, my friend who was hosting us at Fishkill, to let him know the train was on time. Did I speak too soon? For at the station before Poughkeepsie, the train halted for ages.VK was used to this. Back in India he was a huge fan of the railways. He had used their network regularly to chase me as I moved about the country during my stint as a management trainee with a nationalised bank. And then, for over 6 years he worked in colleges about 400 kilometres away from Thiruvananthapuram and had relied on the railways to be home every weekend. The railway guide was more of a friend and a philosopher to him than a guide. So, I was not surprised when he stepped out for a stroll and disappeared from view.We waited, and waited but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to get worried. Amar said he’d find out. Now both were gone. Arpitha and I didn’t know what was happening. VK wasn’t taking our calls either. After some time, to my relief, Amar returned and said VK was talking (what else?) to the conductor. He’s safe, Amar affirmed. Yes, but will he get back on the train at the right time? Unlike India where you can make a dash and leap in through any open door when the train is pulling out and reach your compartment the vestibule way, here such acrobatics are impossible. You better enter your compartment and go straight to your seat. The coaches are all closed mechanically when the train leaves the station and can be opened only at the discretion of the authorities.The train finally began to move but VK was still missing. I panicked. Did he get left behind? It’s again, not like in India, where you might be able to get a taxi and race the train to the next station. What does one do here? Who knows, maybe you could get arrested for just walking around looking lost, while actually being lost.To our huge relief, he emerged, panting. Once he caught his breath and we began breathing easy, we asked him what had taken him so long. Here is what he said, in his voice.‘A carriage, different in looks from the ones we were riding in, attracted my attention. A sleeping car, it said! Let me wake it up. Standing close to it was a dapper, uniformed conductor. He turned out to be a warm, articulate and well-informed chap. I told him I was a tourist from India, that I was a traveller in one of the passenger coaches, and then asked him if I could take a peek inside. Sorry, he said, against the rules. You need a sleeper ticket to step inside.‘Hiding my disappointment, I asked him a few questions about the long halt and the train and then mentioned that back in India this Amtrak train would look like a toy train. “Why?” Leroy—that was his name—asked and gave me the opening I was waiting for. By now we had been joined by a few other curious passengers. I began to wax lyrical on the sheer size and scale of the railway system in India. Of the incredible numbers transported across hundreds of kilometres every day. Set up by the British, I admitted, but improved and expanded and run most efficiently by Indians. Things were not perfect. We did not have the sleek and fast trains Europe boasted of. (And which Americans could not boast of, I thought with some delight.) There were occasional delays and rare accidents, but there was nothing to beat it for stress-free, long-distance travel. Particularly if one had a reserved accommodation in a sleeper coach, I pointed out. No frills, but pretty good nevertheless.‘One of the gentlemen who had joined us now entered the conversation. “Yes”, he said, “I have worked in China and Japan and travelled in Europe and most of Asia. The U.S. system is no match for what is to be found abroad.”‘The gentleman’s name was Steven, a retired Sheraton executive with a fascinating story. He was a Californian, had studied humanities in Stanford, joined the Sheraton group as an executive and served in many parts of the world, much of it in Asia. I wanted to stand up and salute him when he said this but since we were all standing anyway, I confined my appreciation to some muttered phrases of appreciation. Leroy nodded at his words. “I have heard about the fast trains of Europe,” he said, “but did not know that India had any kind of an efficient network.”‘Steven was travelling to New York to see some plays on Broadway, a sort of annual pilgrimage, he hinted.‘The others drifted away but the three of us engaged in an earnest discussion. We were total strangers, from very different backgrounds, but we found ourselves on common ground as we talked about trains, public transport, privatisation, the duties of governments in democracies, the common good and so on. Leroy was most eloquent about some of this. He did not mention a certain blonde gentleman by name but seemed to feel personal pain at what he and his free market fundamentalist friends were doing to Amtrak and to so much more of America’s public infrastructure. I was impressed not just by Leroy’s attitude but also his grasp of the figures related to budgetary allocation to the public sector in his country. Wow, I thought, back home he would be on TV commenting on the railway budget.‘Steven seemed to agree with Leroy on most matters. Strange, for he was a private sector man. But he was, I soon noticed, no neoliberal in his attitudes. At one point, he turned to me and asked, “Have you heard of Vikram Seth?” “Yes, of course, why do you ask?” I said. “Well,” he mentioned with a smile, “we were friends a long time ago, in California. We stayed together for over a year.” “What! You are Vikram Seth’s friend?” I wanted to ask him if he had stayed with Seth or lived with him, but didn’t have the nerve. Instead, I asked, “Are you in The Golden Gate?” He smiled again. “Read and find out.”‘I did not have time to ask more questions for now Leroy grabbed my arm. “Come, I’ll show you the inside of this car.” I was thrilled, more by his change of attitude than what I saw inside. The inside looked more like the first-class sleeper carriage of an Indian express train. Just a corridor and the closed doors to private cabins. All the glasses were dark. “Here,” said Leroy and took me to the last cubicle in the carriage. It was for the conductor, which meant it was his cubicle. He showed me the seat that could be turned into a bed, and some other features. There was even a toilet, artfully hidden beneath what appeared to be a normal seat. Every cubicle had its private toilet. Hmmm… Amtrak had scored over Indian Railways there.‘We stepped out and continued our conversation. I was so conditioned by my memories of railway platforms in India that I missed some cues indicating that my train was about to leave. Leroy and Steven quickly got into the sleeper coach. “Hurry,” said Leroy as he closed his door. I looked around and saw myself on a nearly empty platform. I moved to the nearest passenger carriage and tried to open it. But this wasn’t India; the door would not budge. I nearly panicked. Looking ahead, I noticed the conductor who had first met us—a tall, handsome, uniformed gentleman with dreadlocks—standing some distance away. I ran as fast as I could, remembering the warning that all passengers had to board the train a full five minutes before departure. In India such warnings were confined to the pages of the railway guide.‘“Yes?” asked the conductor as I drew up. “I am sorry,” I panted. “I have a ticket for Poughkeepsie … boarded at Syracuse … got carried away talking to Leroy.” “Leroy!” he exclaimed, then smiled and opened the door. I hurried to my seat to find K, A&A looking at me with anxious faces. “What happened? You nearly gave me a heart attack,” K clutched her heart and said. As I sank into the seat beside her, I smiled sheepishly, but thought to myself, not the first time had that happened. Not the last time either, I suspect. But I told myself I needed to be a little more mindful. I took out my phone and glanced at it. There were several missed calls; from K and the two As. I felt even more sheepish. I had not heard a single one.‘Had I been left on the platform, I would have been in one hell of a spot. I had little cash, a dicey phone that worked in fits and starts, an Indian debit card that most American cash machines rejected, and no idea which way Poughkeepsie was. And, most crucially, no Amar or Arpitha to turn to for help.‘Even as we resumed our journey and I settled down to watch the scenery, I thought of what Leroy had said and remembered the museum at Niagara. And also the National Rail Museum in Delhi. It struck me that most people saw the railways in India as something the British had set up to exploit the place—to take away much of the timber and other raw material as efficiently as possible, to move troops and officials and not for any altruistic purpose. But the railways had transformed India; indeed, helped make it. If I remember right, Narendra Jadhav’s Outcaste: A Memoir narrates the plight of the Dalits in India, much like the Blacks of the U.S., and how they had used the railways to get away from oppressive and crushing social circumstances. Travelling ticketless, starving, beaten, abused and despised, they wound up in industrial centres like Bombay and Calcutta. Here, they also, in a sense, “went underground”.‘The railways followed a very enlightened policy of what the Americans called affirmative action. Many of the men and women fleeing the brutality of their villages ended up in slums beside railway tracks. Caste mattered less in urban settings, particularly if you could provide manual labour. Some found jobs with the railways. Even when the job was of the lowest type—sanitation work or the backbreaking work in the yards—it transformed their lives. There was a salary and often a “quarters” to live in. Soon, this meant schooling for their children. Countless Indian lives, I knew, were transformed by national institutions like the railways. But there were no museums to these folks in India. And the National Rail Museum in New Delhi had nothing to say about them. It was more about maharajahs and queens and viceroys. And the coaches built for them.‘But, if the railways fascinate you, the Delhi rail museum is a magical place. Leroy and Stephen, wherever you are, please visit it. It will blow your mind.’Once VK had finished his tale, I commented, ‘I’d love to see these mysterious people who held you in thrall.’Amar smiled. ‘I took a picture of them talking,’ he said, selecting it from the millions in his phone, a task made simple since it was the last photo he had taken. It was a unique picture, for it had three men—one Black, one White and one Khaki—intent on one conversation. More recently, when Joe Biden was elected president, I harked back to this incident. Amtrak Joe, the first American Amtrak president. Oh, boy, Leroy, what joy this must have brought you; three cheers!The train picked up speed and reached Poughkeepsie station on the dot—at exactly 4.48.Rajive Joseph was waiting at the station. He was my friend from my Punjab National Bank days, and, like me, he too had quit the bank, but took the MBA route and settled in the U.S. He was now sales manager of the North American division of Akay Spices Pvt Ltd, though he’d rather be known as the Grand Wizard of Spices. I picked up all this much later, having lost contact with him and then getting back in touch just a few years ago.When I had told him we were coming to the U.S. for Arpitha’s graduation from Syracuse University, he shouted, ‘Syracuse? Syracuse?’ I was pleased with the eagerness in his response until I realised he couldn’t hear me well; the connectivity was poor. But he was delighted too, when I confirmed it was indeed Syracuse for it wasn’t too far from where he lived. ‘If you’re coming to Syracuse, you have to come home. Best to take the train to Poughkeepsie.’It was my turn to be puzzled. ‘Po … ke … poke what? What must I come by train to poke my nose and see?’‘No, no, it’s a place!’ He had to shout out the spelling several times before I got it. Later we learnt he actually lived in a place called Fishkill in Dutchess County, NY. Poughkeepsie was the station where we had to alight.What unusual names they had in the U.S., many of them taken from the languages of the indigenous native American tribes—Poughkeepsie, Wisconsin, Winnebago, Massachusetts, Skookumchuck … Sadly, though many names had been retained, the native Americans were hardly to be seen. In fact, except for the display in the museums and a few statues, the only native American we saw was the lady selling trinkets outside Niagara Falls.Coming back to names, there’s even a place in San Bernardino County in California that actually bears, with stoicism, I’m sure, the name Zzyzx. Apparently, it had a staid name—Soda Springs—until a dubious ‘doctor’, Curtis Howe Springer, sprang up with something fancy. He founded the Zzyzx Mineral Springs Resort, for he wanted it to be the last word in the English language. The American Medical Association frowned upon his pretensions and called him the ‘King of Quacks’; however the quack had the last laugh, for his name for Soda Springs stuck.But not to worry. We have our own special names for places in India, all calculated to twist the tongues of tourists into tight knots and flip them back into their throats. Ask an American to get tickets to Thiruvananthapuram, Bengaluru, Koyampuththoor, Bhubaneshwar, Dharamshala, Tiruchirappalli, Udhagamandalam (the good old Ooty), Kozhikode, Alappuzha, Mahabaleshwar, Secundrabad, and he’d decide to give India a miss. Unless he chances upon Goa. Goa with its easy, rolling off one’s tongue, name is every tourist’s choice of a good destination (and name). I am sure tourists would have loved it if other places in India had similarly simple names, but, alas, travellers cannot be choosers.It was great to see Rajive. He is a chap with a delightful sense of humour. Back in the day, after heavy lectures on finance and banking, credit investments and risk management at the Staff Training College, Hyderabad, we trainees would shake all those boring subjects off our befuddled heads thanks to light conversation spearheaded by Rajive.He had met VK before but was meeting A&A for the first time. Introductions done, we hopped into his car. Fishkill was obviously a great place to kill time, with its serene surroundings, scenic beauty and the rest of it, but during the car ride to Rajive’s, we were so busy catching up, we barely noticed the sights that rolled by.He had a lovely home and an equally lovely family—wife, daughter, mother-in-law and dog. We met his wife Deepa and daughter Kirti, both doctors, in the evening. Till they reached, I spent much of my time dodging the dog, Myna. All dogs find me irresistible, and ensure my heart is thudding permanently in my mouth when they foist their company on me.The U.S. is perfect for long walks, and that evening we took one around the beautiful neighbourhood with our hosts, dropping in at the house of their friend, Shailaja Ledella, whom we had briefly met at Kirti’s engagement in Kottayam, a city in Kerala. We rounded off a most satisfying day slurping over fried rice, mutton curry, chicken cutlets and the rest of it, while Arpitha had to satisfy herself with the vegetarian dishes. I always feel vegetarians miss out on so much, but then, they don’t know what they are missing. So that’s all right, I suppose.