Punctuality PrincessFrontier Mail ‘IT’S late by 10 minutes.’’ That said in a voice dripping with disbelief is your first introduction to the Frontier Mail. Though officially rechristened Golden Temple Mail seven years ago, the train continues to chug along on the name it was given at its birth on September 1, 1928. The gora sahibs who started it are history, so is the speed and luxury that made it India’s fastest and swankiest long-distance train from Peshawar to Bombay (in just 72 hours), but its legendary reputation for punctuality — people used to set their Rolex by it — is still intact. A bit frayed, but definitely something to rustle up memories of its glorious past.It’s a little past midnight when it glides into the Ludhiana railway station, a stately beauty in light and dark hues of blue with its handsome engine twinkling in the dark. Seventy years ago, the erstwhile Bombay, Naroda and Central Indian Railways used to floodlight their building at Bombay to announce the safe arrival of their star. “I didn’t know that,’’ laughs Gurpreet Sethi, a Mumbaikar now married to a Ludhiana hosiery industrialist. She takes the train because it suits her husband, Arvind. ’’ It reaches Mumbai around 7 am, leaving me free to conduct my business during the day,’’ says Arvind. The dowager’s rich past may be lost on the passengers, but not on its keepers. “It was known for its speed, decor, food.,’’ beams its captain, Akhlaq Ahmad, who’s been serving it for the past 12 years. Today, you have to scrounge around for traces of the old glory even in the two AC Ist class cabins and the lone coupe. The worn maroon carpet, loud jacquard upholstery, and a tacky lamp are a far cry from its opulent past. ’’ There is no comparison at all,’’ says J S Chahal, a retired IFS officer, who first rode it in 1940. “The cabins were roomy with six-inch-thick mattresses, silk curtains, pure white linen, cane chairs, an attached shower. It was a hotel on wheels.’’ In ’34, the fleet-footed beauty added another feather to its cap by introducing air-cooling. Bhagirath Yadav, the AC mechanic who’s been with the Frontier for the past 30 years, smiles as he tells you of battery-operated blowers fanning huge ice blocks tucked beneath the floor. The train’s restaurant car was also a dishy affair. The tables, says Chahal, were covered with white damask. The cutlery was silver and dishes of the finest bone china. You are still digesting this when he adds: “The food was a la carte and we were given separate menu cards for breakfast, lunch and dinner.’’ Today’s pantry with its layers of grime and assembly-line meals leaves a bad taste. Point it out to Akhlaq and he shrugs: “Everything is given out on contract.’’ The smudged linoleum, the lack of class may have something to do with the galloping competition. “The Shatabdis have stolen the passengers from these old trains,’’ rues B S Meena, station superintendent at Chandigarh. The growing number of stops has also put brakes on the dowager’s legendary speed. The train, which used to spurn those who travelled less than 600 kms, now issues tickets even to people going half that distance (300 kms). But wait a minute, where is the scarlet and golden trim? The show-piece dining car finished in silver oak with a zebra wood side-board and glass-topped tables? Well, the dining car has been secreted away for a month’s overhauling at Matunga and the pantry car is whipping up cookery records to take orders and serve in 50 minutes. They want passengers stuffed before Karjat so they don’t head for the famous batatawada off the platforms. Then who will pay for soup-garam? Mumbai’s melting pot is headed home 3 hours and 25 minutes, away hanging on to a motley baggage of laptops to lauki waiting to be chopped in SC6 Ladies Special — the Husbands Special tag of the ’60s no longer holds. ‘‘Last year we had a dance party for a friend’s birthday,’’ says a writer for a Gulf publication. She has shuttled Mumbai to Pune daily for a decade and ‘‘every day is like a picnic. We follow all Maharashtrian traditions. Haldi kumkum, dandiya for Navratri. The train has not improved in the last 10 years, but at Rs 475 for a season ticket what can you expect?’’ she asks matter-of-factly. In the clinical blue and white C3 lit by tubelights a whiff of fish and chips is the only give-away to glory days. Follow your nose toward 35 sweaty cooks tossing omelettes and onion pakoras. ‘‘Two days back Deven Verma came and asked for a parcel of fish and chips, it has survived on the menu since the beginning,’’ catering manager A Raghavan tries to beam in a cloud of agarbatti. ‘‘Even the passengers with reservations don’t turn up anymore,’’ mumbles Ramesh Dhumal, who’s served milky coffee in paper cups the last 25 years. He remembers when breakfast was Rs 4.50. ‘‘Free banana in the mornings, and toffee in the evenings,’’ he adds helpfully. The Blue-Eyed Babe of the Indian Railways may be tucked into a million memories for birthdays, anniversaries and promotions celebrated on board. But that’s not so easy anymore. ‘‘Seats no longer face each other so we can’t play cards or chat. The compartments used to be majestic,’’ remembers N G Kher who’s travelled the Queen since the 1960s. Somewhere a couple is deciding how to squeeze an extra bedroom in their building plan, while a framed tiger from Tamil Nadu — what’s he doing here — looms above them. Somebody’s playing Space Impact on Nokia and the Ladies Special is sulking, the camaraderie is not obvious. Whizzing by barren fields and thatched homes, no children in khaki shorts scramble by, train spotting. The kid on a haystack does not break into a grin and a mighty wave. Even the heart of the Deccan is no longer in awe. Riding with Royalty Flying Ranee Maybe the Queen of the West Coast still makes heads turn? The Illustrated London News of 1853 sure is high on hope. ‘‘The opening of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway will be remembered by the people of India when the Battle of Plassey, Assaye, and Goojerat have become mere landmarks of history.’’ At 5.55 pm Mumbai Central, the Flying Ranee (born 1906) is rumbling to speed to Surat. ‘‘She was born of a humble lineage and attained glory along the way. Exactly when and where we don’t know and neither does the Western Railway for that matter,’’ quotes a fading issue of Rail Darpan. Most officials freeze when asked for scraps of information or fading photographs to resurrect the Ranee’s past. Once India’s fastest medium distance train, and the first to be rigged with double-decker coaches in 1979 (there was once a telephone on board), the Ranee now scrapes into Surat often minutes behind schedule. And hey, it looks like just another heaving suburban local but for the double-decker community squashed in impossibly small spaces. ‘‘She is a slow Ranee now. Too many stops,’’ grumbles textile businessman S G Crawford. Once famed for separate vegetarian and non-vegetarian dining, today they don’t serve food on board. ‘‘So many daily office commuters, there’s no room for dining,’’ mutters an official. Looking up from Men are from Mars.Jaya Mayenkar is on her seven-times-a-month visit to Surat to catch up with her son. ‘‘Flying Ranee?’’ She raises an eyebrow to indicate she’s never on time. ‘‘I don’t talk to anyone, people are stressed out and ready for a fight.’’ Teacher Aban Palsetia seems to hang on to fond memories of 28 years ago. ‘‘Birthdays, farewells, anniversaries, lipstick shopping on board. That charm is all gone.’’
