Janakpur Railway

We Janakpurians are most proud of two things: first, the Ramayana would not have existed without us, and second, ours in the only city in Nepal with a railway station. You should hear my father talk about the latter; he speaks about it for hours. Like any other Janakpur local, I too am proud of our train—rickety-raggedy and tortoise-paced as it might be. As a child I always looked forward to riding the railgadi. It was the first train I ever sat on. I obviously did not know that only very, very slow trains take three hours to cover twenty

miles. I did not know trains were supposed to run faster than people and bicycles. I did not know they were not supposed to have planks missing from their wooden floors. All I knew was that I was on a train, a vehicle many of my friends had not yet seen or seen only in the movies. I sat in the crowded coach, looking out at men on motorcycles zooming past, birds

flying along and children striving to keep up as the train chugged along.

I have been on many trains since—fast, efficient, air-conditioned trains that whiz past neighborhoods like glimpses from the future. A quick break at a station is too risky; these trains pull away fast without you. On one occasion, my father got left behind at the Lucknow station and it was almost a week until we next saw him. But the Janakpur railway is different. My father jumps on and off the Janakpur railways trains, without worry or care. If the trains pulls away from the station and leaves him behind, he simply runs to catch up. It’s never a big deal.

So, fast is not always the most desirable and it certainly wasn’t on this occasion.

Papa, Ma, and I were going to Jaynagar to visit relatives. As always, the railgadi was terribly crowded. The roof—or what was left of it—was fully occupied by men. Bicycles and slippers hung from the windows, tied to the bars with gumchas and naadas. Towels and kerchiefs fluttered like flags in the wind. Hair ribbons flapped. The entrance to the coach was perpetually jammed with crowds of half-dangling men who occasionally stepped off to relieve themselves upon adjoining tracks. Behind these men, children performed tricks and stunts, hopping and climbing over people until they got spanked and yanked. There was bawling and screaming. Mothers, querulous and haggard, traveled with sacks or merchandise—firewood, potatoes, onions and mangoes. They seemed to flutter like birds, like crows cawing at their chicks.

Outside, men climbed the windows, their slippers, worn to shreds, stumbling on and bars bicycles as they pulled their bodies onto the roof. The coach smelled of vegetables and oil. It felt like the end of the world—hot, humid, full of bodily stench and noisy beyond belief. All along, the train chugged on at its mind-boggling speed of five miles per hour. Next to us sat a couple of newly-weds: the bride with her veil pulled low over her face, the groom with his tall turban. Between them was the groom’s sister, who looked exactly like the groom. I felt sorry for the bride and the groom with the veil and the turban in such heat, and a sister in between!

At the Khajuri station, the train came to a slow halt (there are five stations in the twenty mile stretch between Janakpur and Jayanagar). Immediately, people started getting off. Khajuri is well known for its hot and delicious pyajies, deep fried onion fritters. Papa got off as soon as he had pushed away enough people and the groom followed straight after. A little later, the bride whispered into the sister’s ears and made her way out too. The sister immediately took her sandals off and put one sandal each on either side—the Janakpur crowd is notoriously fluid and any unwatched seat is snatched in an instance—so I took off my sandal and put it on Papa’s seat too.

The Khajuri station looked like a bustling bazaar. I kept an eye on my father. There he was, taking his time buying fritters and making small talk with everybody, and continuing even after the train had blown its feeble whistle. After another minute, the train began to pull away. Papa jogged merrily towards us, still carrying on with his conversation. He ran up to our window and handed over the snack, then slowed down to meet the entrance. Somebody there pulled him up into the vehicle and Papa pushed his way towards us, grinning—he had just caught a running train. The bride and the groom were not back yet and the sister, quiet so far, began yelling out the window. “Bhaiya! Bhabhi!” I could not see the groom anywhere, but I caught sight of the bride, small, petite, brighter than the sun in her golden saree—rooted at her spot.

“Run, run!” we shouted to her, but she did not move.

It was after the train was a good way away that we saw the groom appear suddenly under our window. He was running, panting and screaming to be heard. “The bicycle,” he yelled. “Untie it, please! Please!”

“Go to the door,” Papa shouted back. “They will pull you up.”

“The bicycle, the bicycle,” the groom insisted, so Papa untied the bicycle. The bicycle—why did it not collapse on the ground and break into a thousand pieces? Because the train was so damn slow, of course. The bicycle fell off and we did not see the groom or the bicycle again for some time. The sister wept in panic. Then we saw the groom again. There he was, on the bicycle, pedaling hard while his bride sat behind him, hands around his waist. She had pushed her veil back and was looking around with large, young eyes, smiling. They made a lovely couple on the bicycle, waving at their wonderstruck sister. We all waved back. They rode by our side until the train pulled into the next station.