Escape to freedom

Forget the over-scheduled itineraries, and learn to experience the moment in your travels, says MADHUCHANDA DAS.

Life’s a journey, not a destination, goes the popular pearl of wisdom from the American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson.

How well I understand you now, Ralph. You see, I’m planning my holidays, and all of a sudden, it’s the journey, not the destination, that seems paramount.

Having outgrown the “posing-shamelessly-in-front-of-world-monuments” and the “furiously-shooting-away-with-sophisticated-equipment” phases of my life, now, it’s all about the journey, the moment and the experience of travel. I’m done with smugly circling cities I’ve traversed on the world map. It used to be a frantic, stressed-out mission

to capture the world with my lens then. And over-scheduled itineraries, “touristy” 10-point sight seeing agendas and frenzied shopping sprees.

But now, I’ve progressed into the midlife leanings towards relaxed meanderings and wanderings. So it’s more about getting lost in the obscurity of quaint towns untouched by the debasement of modern civilization. It’s more about the innate simplicity and gentleness of unpretentious folk who accept you into their territory and homes with no strings attached. It’s more about witnessing the pristine though paramount power of nature that unashamedly exposes the transience of human attainment. It’s more about finding commonalities, forging bonds, building relationships, letting go of the past, surrendering to the now, and creating memories for the future.

Going back to my roots is certain but the modus operandi has shifted gear. This year I’m attempting to re-invent the long lost Bharat Darshan from the pages of my childhood. Yes, it’s no more about the conventional touch-down and touch-off swirling across the country’s expanse in budget flights 35000 feet above my beckoning land. On the

contrary, it’ll be back to travelling on the world’s largest, single owned network of trains aptly called Bhartiya Rail. It’ll be back to being the delirious 10-year-old from decades ago. It’ll be back to re-discovering the

real people that define the land, back to reacquiring something I’ve forgotten and forsaken over the years.

Yes, somewhere deep down Yatra, Shyam Benegal’s epic TV serial from 1986, has never left me. It had fascinated me then with its theme of national integration created from a comfy first class coupe of an Indian railways train. I didn’t realise it then, but can fathom now as to why I waited desperately for every episode.

Like most kids in my colony in the Indian business capital, summer vacations implied the annual pilgrimage to the faraway native place. And I was the luckiest of the lot with the longest journey to make. An unbelievable 3200 kilometres on chhuk chhuk gaadi to the extreme other end of the country. The eventful expedition needed two

whole nights and three days to be spent on board. And so the excitement unfurled right from the taxi ride to the station, to locating our reserved berths, followed by the flagging off of the train to the final arrival at the terminating destination.

The journey spelt three days of sheer fun, frolic and freedom. From the smell of the coal-fired engine, to the regular fights with my elder sis over the window seat, to shy introductions with co-passengers, to sharing meals like a grand Indian joint family, to clamouring to get up first on the upper berth, to unending strolls up and down the

compartment. I would be completely oblivious of the breathtaking countryside unfolding outside the window. Funnily, the similar sounding shrill calls of chai garam chai, jhalmuri, boiled anda (eggs) and samosa at every station across the length of the country made me assume that India probably was the same everywhere. Life seemed like a chapter from Enid Blyton’s classic Famous Five series. It was a blast and this was home.

The anti climax, however, was the tearful farewell in the end, with the mandatory exchanges of telephone numbers and addresses amidst the chaotic madness of the station. Yes, I knew not where they came from or couldn’t care less about where they went, but in a subtle way they

would touch me. As I followed my family up the over bridge, my welled up eyes would cast a final look at the majestic “Black Beauty” engine that had magically transported me to the lush green lands of my Thakuma (paternal grandmother).

I was incapable then of dissecting the almost poetic prowess of that gargantuan voyage or how it was akin to my journey of life. I even failed to notice the smelly toilets or the dirty environs. That I began to appreciate only later as I graduated in the so-called skills of life.

Life underwent massive upheavals since. I found myself surrounded by the glossy hustle and bustle of airports across the globe in the second phase of my journeying travails. Strange, but I fail to recollect any gleaming faces or chirpy conversations from this second period of

rather methodical movement.

And so, after satiating my life’s appetite for touristy conquests, I’m back to phase one. The passion for travel

remains as fervent as before. Only this year I hope to venture out with a nouveau mission in that bygone direction. I trust I will once again get to meet my long lost chaiwallah, jhalmuriwallah and my dearest train

family en route. Wish me luck!