The Indian Railways-The best introduction to the Anglo-Indian way of life.

On arriving at the age of seventy-two, I started wondering if I had reached the proverbial divergent roads in the dark woods. Though the idea of writing not just one more book, but many, is a constant pinging in my brain, the thought of getting down to it was much more difficult than I expected. This was probably due to the fact that, in some way, at least, my already published work had not picked up as I had anticipated. But then, realizing that I myself found pleasure and insight when I re-read my books, I was consoled by the idea that someday, perhaps, my writing would get the recognition that I certainly think it deserves. And so, I decided to launch out again, because that’s what writers do.

But this time, before the soon-to-be-ready next book comes out, I decided to set up my own blog.

I felt that I could try to introduce a compilation of my written work, chosen at random by me, in the hope that some of you will be interested in what I have said and what I continue to say. This blog hopes to bring together diverse perspectives and I would like to believe that these writings will stir up interest in a host of readers, with similar or divergent standpoints (the more the merrier, I say), giving rise to a continuing and on-going debate regarding the issues originally put forth and providing enough ammunition to writers of every kind, so that a renewed vigour is injected into the world of writing and the world of reading (they must always go hand in hand, don’t you think?).

My daily bread was earned, from the time I left College with a Master’s Degree in English, by trying to teach batch after batch of preponderantly indifferent students the joys of language, a joy that no other subject-matter can give. I have heard say that the animal world (in its entirety) also has very subtle means of communication, but nothing can ever come close to the nuances and double-meanings and multiple-meanings and innuendo and allusions and inferences and more, that the languages of men are capable of. And yet, the world today is sliding into silence and apathy because the written word is no longer held in the high esteem it once commanded.

As a teacher and as an administrator I came across umpteen instances of things going from bad to worse. At a Seminar that I chaired, on “Teaching Reading”, I lamented the fact that “reading” was no longer the sublime, serious, thought-provoking pastime that it was and was always meant to be. This immediately urged a participant to contest my view. “You are wrong, Mr. P…” he said. “Today, everyone has a mobile phone and everyone reads, every day, the messages registered there.” I looked at him, perplexed. “So, in fact,” he continued, “everyone is reading something or the other every day. Reading, therefore, is alive and well.” I quietly conceded defeat, because I could not believe that a senior teacher of the English language could hold such a view. But then, we live and learn and also live to learn; to each his own.

I have tried, from a very young age, to give shape to my thoughts in the various forms of language that we know and experience—poetry, prose, drama, essay-writing, novels of varying lengths, even pish-pash and bosh, as the mood describes. I must confess that my writing has not attracted as many people as I imagined it would, but, as I said earlier, we live to learn even as we live and learn.

I do not know if I am very wrong, but it seems to me that the world and its values (with regard to reading and writing) are stacked against the writer—novice, or up-and-coming, or even the hack. Today the writer is very often at the mercy of publishing houses of every kind, literary agents of every hue, dilettante armchair critics who believe absolutely in their powers of perception and observation and, worst of all, your own social circle which will gloat over any minor hitch that comes your way. Anyway, most people are not bothered with the burden of reading, especially if the effort requires seriousness; and most also believe that they already know what has been said by this or that or the other writer. But then, as one well-known and well-received teacher once observed, a prophet is not without honour, except in his own country.

From this statement of fact stems the inherent belief of the writer that he has something to impart, some piece of wisdom that needs to breathe in order to survive, no matter what the rest of the world decides. This lonely road has to be traversed, because, ultimately, the writer realizes that on this seminal idea (of being one of a kind) hangs all the loss [laws] (of conceiving and bringing forth and publishing and marketing) and the profits [prophets] (that may or may not accrue).

My first foray into the world of public opinion (which is what each and every writer tries to provoke—for the good or for the bad) was when a poem of mine was published in the College magazine of 1975, which was, incidentally, my last year of what is called a formal education. I am certain that a teacher (whom I revered and later tried to emulate) of mine found it “interesting”, but nothing further came of it. I didn’t take up serious writing till I was forced to, since my MPhil degree involved a lot of research and writing and re-writing till my very meticulous supervisor was satisfied. But it was then that I discovered that I had a way with words (I suppose anyone and almost everyone can say the same when it comes to speaking), because I also discovered that, on re-reading my stuff, I found great pleasure and satisfaction. I do not think that this is untrue in each and every case, because if you cannot find anything good in your own writing, be sure there may be very few others (if any at all) who will.

My first published article was in the form of a short story, a part of “The National Anglo-Indian Railway Convention Souvenir 2003”, celebrating 150 years of the Railways in India. It was then given to the magazine “Anglos in the Wind”. The response was good, from all parts of the world now inhabited by erstwhile Anglo-Indians. It later made its way into the pages of “Madras Musings”, a fortnightly paper that is circulated in Chennai (that was once Madras) and perhaps its suburbs. It finally found a place in a compilation of short stories and essays on the Anglo-Indian way, in a book titled “Footprints on the Track”, that took it all over India and beyond. Take a look at it:

                                                                                     Uncle Tom’s Cabin

My uncle Tom was the kind of man you seldom see: medium height, gaunt to an extreme limit that made you feel even a little less flesh would make the bone-weight of the body insupportable, but of such genial spirits that you never really noticed his sparse frame. He had deep-set eyes that never lost their dream-like expression. To me he was one of those patriarchs, steeped in wisdom and anchored in well-satisfied self-respect.

Like most of my relatives, and perhaps as in most other Anglo-Indian families, Tom Brewart was a railwayman. Looking at him set me imagining that a blend of steel and coal burned at the core of every true Anglo-Indian. Uncle Tom once mentioned this himself, and when I pressed him for more information on the subject, he said, “Boy, the Railway is the lifeline of the Community. We were the pioneers; we set the wheels in motion; we brought the different Indias together; we nurtured the monolithic organization and gave it meaning; but when the hardest part of the job was done, we were, more or less, jettisoned. Still, the Railway is part of our heritage. Remember, always remember, without tradition, no one can survive.

“The steam-engine years,” Uncle Tom continued, “marked the heyday of our people. Boys only waited to complete their elementary school to be inducted as khalasis. Sometimes it took years to be upgraded as second fireman, but, inevitably, almost everyone made it. Then to first fireman and finally to the coveted post of driver. I too had my internship, over a period of ten years, but by keenly watching my cabin-mates, I learnt all the ropes, even as the shoveling and collecting of the ‘all-clear’ keys toughened my body. I wanted very much to be my own man, and at the age of thirty-two, that dream became a reality.

“Right from the beginning, Madras was the hub around which the entire railway machine in South India revolved. It was with immense pride that the loco drivers of my day rode in state into the artistic marvels of Central and Egmore stations. The drivers of the mail and express trains, hauled by Mallard Express steam engines or even the Ellerman Lines specials, all of them wore spanking white uniforms just to show how really clean the foot-plates were. When the crews checked in for duty they would report hours before time, just to see that the engines were spick and span, the brass fittings gleaming burgundy and gold against the thunderous blackness of the boiler and the quick-silver sheen of the perch. And it was an unwritten rule that if the driver reported sick, his firemen would follow suit. So, there they were, at Cochin and Shoranur, Podanur and Erode, Madurai and Trichinopoly, Villupuram and Arkonam, Kazipet and Waltair, these bands of men, intent on their jobs, intense in their love for their rolling-stock, intrepid in the carrying out of their duties. You had Bentleys, Gouldings, Vieyras, D’Cruzs, Paynes, D’Silvas, Platels, Smiths, Cleurs, Rozarios, and oh-so-many more.

“Every driver,” Uncle Tom went on, downing a generous peg of rum-and-water, “Every driver had his own signal, while leaving station or returning, to tell the family in the railway quarters that he was on board. The whistle would delicately and accurately identify the respective driver so that, especially on the down run, ‘chotta’ and coffee could be kept ready. After the porter had secured the driver’s box in the running room, and after the goodbyes to his mates, the man would be home in fifteen minutes or so, either walking or bicycling the distance to the lines. Long before the next run, the driver would be back at the yards, supervising and tending the machine that was his life, face aglow because of the glittering steel of the coupling rod, crank, connecting rod and combination lever, and at the burnished gold of the levers and gauges within the cabin. The exercise came to an end with an inspection of the blood-red buffers, front and back, and a check of the water-filler, with the hand-rail for support.”

Another pull from his tumbler and Uncle Tom’s eyes took on a glaze that to me indicated nothing but reminiscence. Since I, too, a long time ago, had adopted his thorough-going philosophy of simple living and high drinking, I knew the mood very well. Many drinkers are mistaken for drunks, but that’s because only the chosen few really know the difference. Uncle also had words of caution: “Beggars,” he said, “cannot be boozers.” And in the course of my studies, I came across the heady advice: “Drink, don’t think,” which still seems a very fine alternative. Uncle Tom was quite certain that though many drivers may have had fire-water in their bellies when on duty, they were rarely involved in accidents, since theirs was a labour of love, of devotion, and of honour. “That really isn’t the case today, is it?” he asked dreamily.

“When I was in my cabin, riding the foot-plate, I was on top of the world, yet grounded in reality because of the direction-finding tracks. I knew every siding, every signal tower, every culvert, every span of every bridge. Every running-room had its own speciality and the cooks in those days were tops: idlis and kurma, dosas and fish curry, parottas and vindaloo, idiappam and paya, appam and errichi curry, all sent down with metre-long draughts of chai or kappi.”

The dreamy look had now given way to a sleepy-tired one. “Son,” Uncle Tom said, “it’s a good thing, at times, to keep the past before you, because there’s so much that can be learnt from it—both good and bad. But it’s a terrible thing to let the past dominate the present; that makes one brood, makes one sinister, makes one an escapist. So let me end this chat with an anecdote:

“In those days there used to be foot-plate inspections. British officers would poke around, looking for minute faults. One morning I had just steamed into Central from Erode and had given Kannan, a khalasi, charge of my box. My firemen had also joined me for tea at the dining room further down the station. From out of nowhere a British officer pounced on Kannan, demanding the names of the crew. ‘Who is the driver?’ thundered the Britisher. ‘Brute, saar,’ whined the khalasi, noticing the flummoxed expression on the officer’s face. ‘And the firemen?’ ‘Step in son and peep in, Saar,’ said Kannan, a little more confidently. ‘What? Speak up!’ said the officer. Kannan repeated: ‘Step in son and peep in.’ ‘Insolent fool! I’ll see the end to this!’ snorted the white man, as he swiveled and marched away. Half-way back to the engine, I noticed the officer’s heightened colour. Believing that introductions were in order, I said, ‘Sir, I’m Brewart, the driver. And these are my firemen, Stephenson and Peppin.’”

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I hope to be ready with other episodes for you every week. Wish me luck. 

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