Back in
the 1960s, summer truly began when my father braved the night at the Victoria
Terminus railway station, sitting through long, sleepless queues to secure
precious third-class tickets for our journey to Coimbatore. He always returned the
following morning looking like a weary but victorious warrior, the hard-won
tickets clutched in his tired hands.
The
journey, spread over two long nights, was an adventure from start to finish.
Our little family—my mother, brother, and I—crammed all our possessions into a
large metal trunk, a heavy hold-all - a sturdy canvas bag stuffed with
bedspreads and inflatable pillows.
As the
train pulled out of Victoria Terminus behind a powerful electric engine, I
would press my face to the window, mesmerized by the rhythm of the wheels and
the rush of warm air. The electric motor hummed steadily, pulling us up the
steep ghats to Pune, the hills rolling past in a blur of green and brown.
Beyond Pune, the train changed character: the electric engine gave way to a
mighty steam locomotive, which filled the air with thick clouds of coal smoke
and the sharp scent of soot. The hiss and chug of the steam engine, the sharp
blasts of its whistle, and the blast of heat from the enormous boiler filled me
with awe.
Inside
the cramped third-class compartment, the smells of coal smoke mingled with the
sour tang from the latrine, and spice-laden aromas trailed in from vendors as
they moved among us, calling out for chai, samosas, and snacks. Outside, a
moving panorama passed by—vast farmlands, village stations illuminated by
solitary lamps, level crossings where waving villagers seemed to welcome us. On
some platforms, I eagerly looked for the Higginbotham’s book cart, where we
children argued which comic would be our prized purchase for the
journey.
As we
approached Coimbatore, excitement welled up in me. The final crawl to the
platform, marked by the train’s squeaks and trundles, was always filled with
eager anticipation—my eyes would scan the crowd until, inevitably, I would spot
my ever-favorite uncle Krishnan and wave wildly.
Disembarking
was its own ceremony. We clambered into a horse cart—an event more special than
the train journey itself. My brother and I squeezed next to the horseman, our
eyes wide as the horse clopped through dimly lit streets and the smells of
horse droppings mingled with the night’s floral scents. The horseman’s shouts
and the rhythmic snap of his whip are memories that live on, vivid and
unblurred by time.
Uncle
Krishnan would pedal behind us on his bicycle, finally catching up as the cart
stopped outside our home on Lokamanya Street. The restless horse would shuffle and let out a
gentle neigh, almost as if announcing our arrival. On cue the entrance light
flickered on and my grandmother’s silhouette appeared at the door. We ran into
her waiting arms, held in a welcome reserved just for her grandchildren from
Bombay.
Our
grandmother’s home always sparkled, redolent of fresh paint and loving
discipline. After a short nap, I was up at dawn, impatient to watch the
sunlight fill every corner of our summer haven. I would ask Patti, “Is the old
hunchbacked idli mama still around?” She would smile, sometimes nodding
quietly, and on a later trip she gently revealed he was gone for
good.
By nine
in the morning, I stood at the gate, scanning the road’s far end, listening for
the familiar cry of the idli vendor. His steaming idlis and coconut
chutney linger in my memory as food fit for gods. Years later, Patti handed my
brother and me a couple of rupees, whispering that we should try the dosai at
the new Annapoorna restaurant a few blocks away
Each
arrival in Coimbatore was more than a trip—it was a ritual of belonging. The
thrill of reunion, the unmistakable scents and sounds, the gentle security of
family rituals, and the promise of new discoveries made every summer
unforgettable. The glow of those memories have lingered long after the last train whistle faded into
the night.
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