Madras to Trichy – Through the Cauvery Delta on Train
“Saar, ekkada unnaru?” (Sir, where are you?). It’s the phone call I have been waiting for, for the past half hour on a surprisingly cool morning in Tambaram, on the outskirts of Madras. VSP, my fellow traveller for the day arrives within a few mintues. Turns out he was at the edge of the platform waiting for me to call instead! If you are from the IRFCA you know VSP. If you are not from the IRFCA, then suffice to say that within that small, but growing group of railway nerds, VSP is the Rajnikanth equivalent. He dresses indifferently, with the top button of his shirt permanently undone, wears spectacles that went out of style in the 80’s, writes as if he’s clearing the next government project file and speaks in a style of language that can be termed colorful and not always politically correct. Did I mention that he has an army of fans scattered throughout the country?
Presently, both us occupy a bench on the platform and patiently wait for our train, the Trichy bound Cholan Express. Tambaram is busy as ever, with the commuting crowd mulling around platforms and deciding which train to take. The characteristic gurgle of a diesel locomotive announces the arrival of our train and for once, there is no scramble for seats. No one in their right mind would take a train that goes long way around and consumes a leisurely eight and half hours for a three hundred and fifty kilometre journey. Except railway nuts. As soon as we leave, the breakfast vendor makes an appearance. Pongal and vadais are ordered and before anyone can say Jack Robinson, they are consumed. VSP is disgruntled by the meagre quantity and wants more. The southern suburbs are fast dispatched and I have to scramble to show VSP the huge industrial area at Maraimalar Nagar, the center at which lies the showcase factory of the Ford Motor Co. We sweep into Chengalpattu using a giant curve that skirts the lake at the edge of the town. One can usually spot a lot of birds and a few fisherfolk going about their work, but today there is a heavy mist just above the surface of the water denying me the chance.
VSP troops off in search of more pongal and vadai to satiate his hunger and also to grab a copy of the morning’s paper. Like all good South Indians his day is not complete until he scans The Hindu’s headlines. A brief stop later, we are on our way. We wait for the industrious TTE to finish his job and tuck into the pongal. This time it is hot, delicious and the quantity is enough to feed five people! The locomotive hauling us seems to be a doing a fine job – belching smoke now and then, honking the staccato blast of a horn at every level crossing and lurching forward with enormous power after every brief slow down. The countryside is typical rural Tamil Nadu – lots of green paddy mixed with odd squares of sugarcane and tomato. This seems to bore VSP and he keeps downing his eyelids every ten minutes. Never the one to not have fun with him, I keep waking him up with inane questions about this and that. Finally, irritated, he gives up his slumber and stares out into the seas of green that surround us.
We rumble across the dry Palar river, where another bridge is being constructed using the old meter gauge alignment as a guide. Like good friend Mohan Bhuyan once said, the Palar is a mile wide and a foot deep with nothing but sand on its bed. Some buffaloes lazily graze on the bank while their owner seems content with a snooze under the shade of coconut palms. At Olakur, we are diverted to the loopline and made to wait for the Madras-bound Pallavan Express to cross. Once a crack express train, with a beautiful yellow-green livery and matching locomotive, a superb pantry car and train attendants proudly wearing crisp white uniforms, it is now reduced to being another faceless, dirty and perpetually late train on the network. As if to underline its decline in status, it arrives very slowly, almost to a stop but then picks up speed and goes on it way. With our line now clear and a wave of the green flag from the station master, we too start.
We trundle by Tindivanam without stopping, which surprises me. This is a rather big and important trading town, but not in the eyes of the Indian Railways, it seems. This is the case with most things on the IR. Stupid, bureaucratic decisions that seem to be more driven by political agenda than plain, simple statistics and passenger need. I point this out to VSP and he grunts an approval in between his on again, off again shut eye. The non-stop run through Tindivanam has upset an elderly gentleman in the adjacent bay. He had been planning on buying a lunch of thayir saadam here and is now disappointed that he’ll go hungry till he reaches his destination, Kumbakonam. I placate him by saying that the next stop, Villupuram will be a longish one and he’ll have enough time to buy his food. At Mundiambakkam, we are greeted by the stench of molasses from a nearby sugar factory a, rather big but empty freight yard and station buildings painted in garish pink.
Arrival at Villupuram is a full ten minutes ahead of schedule, which pleases VSP no end. A sleepy station which doesn’t see much passenger traffic in the day is now fully alert and geared up to sell its wares – lunch in the form of sambar, tomato, lemon and curd rice, masala vadai and ‘briyani’. VSP jumps off and is first in line at the food stall. He’s procured two packets each of tomato and curd rice and some vadais. Food duly deposited with me, he sets of in search of a still to read copy of The Hindu. Meanwhile, the elderly gent has also brought himself some saadam and is transferring the same to his wife inside the coach when a vendor selling cold drinks accidently bumps into him. Result? Pepsi and curd rice over three people. VSP returns triumphantly with his paper, with the relief of not having missed a daily ritual very apparent on his face. With their food not selling all that well, vendors start a shouting match. Each loud “Saaambaar rice, currrrddd rice, lemonnnn rice” is met by a louder one from a few feet away. The decibel levels are so high, that passengers ambling on the platform are caught unawares when the locomotive honks and starts pulling out. A mild scramble later everyone is on board and the Cholan Express gingerly crosses tracks and takes a south-easterly course towards the erstwhile South Indian Railway mainline while the newer and shorter chord line seems to a cock a snook at the old and sweeps westward on a high bank.
We are finally on our way to the Cauvery Delta. And as if to announce this as grandly as possible, there is a dramatic turn of scenery. A small rivulet on either of which are acres upon acres of paddy. Some blindingly emerald green, some in a shade more parrot and then some slightly goldeny. Mud paths doubling up as boundaries between adjacent properties act as a break for the green monotony. Men and women in colorful turbans are ankle deep in water caring for the tender shoots. A gentle wind is blowing across the entire area and whole fields sway in rhythm. But this lovely countryside doesn’t last long as we push towards the town of Panruti. The paddy and coconut gives way to a mix of stumpy cashew(!) and dry, thorny kikar shrub. The only distinctly charming thing about Panruti was its lovely tree lined station dominated by a giant Tamarind tree. But with the new broad gauge line and the need to be brash and modern, even that is gone. The quaint old structures that used to house the station master’s office and booking counters have been demolished and replaced by banal, CPWD type boxy buildings, painted in a hideous urine yellow hue. Panruti is also well known for its guava and jackfruit orchards and right on schedule a hoard of vendors selling these two items descend on the train. Some confine themselves to the platform, but most clamber on board.
We make steady but unremarkable progress for the next twenty odd kilometers. The little town of Nellikuppam comes and goes. VSP, who seems to conjure up obscure facts about places at will, informs me that this town was once the hotbed of caste and communal flare-ups. The only thing I notice is the presence of a nice, fruit laden Mango tree near the booking office of the station. The air now suddenly turns a bit tangy and there is quite a cross breeze. This signals the arrival of Cuddalore Port. But before that we halt at the temple village of Tirupadiripuliyur for a few mintues. The railway line is perilously close to the road and an adventurous kleptomaniac will find it very easy to snatch a few things from passerby! I take this opportunity to photograph a few people waiting at a bus stop – it is very hot and the weariness on their faces is very transparent.
Cuddalore was once a very important junction – the nearby port contributing to much of this status, but neglect of the harbour, haphazard conversion of nearby lines from metre to broad and a general trend to move away from piecemeal traffic to containerized operations has meant that this once vibrant station now wears a deserted look. Like all stations on this route, gauge conversion has taken away most of the charm, but some bits of the old thankfully remain. The red brick police station, a gaily painted shrine for the goddess Durga and a wooden foot bridge all add a very distinct character to the otherwise dull grey of concrete. VSP gets down to stretch his legs and also to test the width of the enormous platform. He’s busy counting his steps when the train starts silently. It’s a bit of a comic scramble, but gets back on board safely.
The next hour or so is spent trying to beat the soporific effects of a nice heavy rice based lunch and the distinctly slow pace and gait of the train. We are a doing a steady 50-60 kpmh. This would have made a rollicking ride on the metre gauge, with the coaches swaying quite a bit. But on the bigger, heavier broad gauge it feels very unnatural. As if we weren’t riding a train, but an elephant. The monotony of the scenery, more seas of green paddy dotted with coconut, despite is beauty only adds to the overall laziness. I fight off the drooping eyelids for a while, but after a bit this becomes futile and I give up. VSP seems to have given up a long time ago and the clickety clack of the wheels are punctuated by gentle snores from him.
When I wake up, we are gingerly making our way through a station called Kille. For once, I am very pleased as the boffins who did convert the line seem to have paid little attention to this place. The station seems old and the platform is lined with mango and coconut trees. The real beauty of the surroundings isn’t apparent until we exit. More acres of paddy, but this time, the relief isn’t from the coconut and palm: The four giant gopurams of the Nataraja temple in Chidambaram soar over everything in sight. We are well over 5 km from the main town, but the size and majesty of it is very apparent. The midday sun casts a lovely golden sheen over the entire landscape. The very first time I saw the temple I was in awe, but with each further viewing it just keeps getting better and better. And by some weird telepathy, every passenger in the coach seems to have gravitated towards the windows and is busy catching the sight. We get closer and closer to Chidambaram town and temple plays hide and seek with some of the more modern buildings nearby, but every now and then, a gopuram or two manages to shed the blockade and show itself.
Chidambaram station, like most of before it on the line is depressingly modern. Gone are the gopuram cornered waiting halls and retiring rooms. Gone are the small shrines in niches of the control office. I suppose as a growing town with sizable traffic, such romantic touches to a very practical space wasn’t all that high on the agenda of the railways, but it grates to see the decline of character and style so rapidly. And as if to underline my thoughts, there is a large crowd waiting to board the train. A cup of nice, strong coffee has invigorated me and I am now eagerly looking forward to the run into the heart of the delta. Kaapi here has had a long tradition and almost every small town and village serves up a delectable tumbler. Railway stations are not an exception either, although the watery milk does dilute the whole experience a bit.
VSP is all excited now to see the bridge over river Kollidam, the Cauvery’s northernmost distributory. I tell him that the old iron one with its trusses was a beauty, whereas the new one is a prefabricated concerte block. The ‘clang, clang, clang’ while crossing the old bridge was one of the highlights of the trip. Now? Just a dull thud of reverberations between two walls of cement. During the conversion, this bridge collapsed not once, but thrice. Perhaps the spirits of the old one continued to haunt! We pull into Sirkazhi where an even more sizeable number of people are waiting to board. By now, the speed has slowed down to a crawl and the resulting time delay is beginning to irritate me. And my typed notes on the phone reflect that –
13:48 – Leaving Sirkazhi. Stupid dull track. Can’t we go faster?
13:55 – Really crawling now. Who the hell built this track? Feels like a cart road.
14:00 – Vaitheswaran Koil. Big gopuram to the east and boards of astrologer services on platform. Slow, slow progress again. VSP too is irritated. Expression on face is priceless!
14:25 – Mayiladuthurai. Atlast!
The river Cauvery flows to the north of this town and it now resembles a stream of muddy, dirty bathwater. Hardly the character of a river that is the cause of so much trouble in this part of the country! The train has practically emptied itself here with only a handful of passengers left in each coach. Another coffee later, everyone is refreshed and the locomotive duly belches out a thick column of smoke and starts.
We swing westwards onto the line towards Kumbakonam, while a thin flattened path that once held tracks to Tiruvarur continues straight south. Immediately, the increase in speed is apparent. This is much, much more like the broad gauge of elsewhere and we are soon rollicking along. VSP is mighty pleased and his grin is now wide and proud. I am, however, not pleased at this. This part of the delta has much richer scenery and I wish the speeds were slower so as to take it in all properly. Gone are the acres and acres of monotonous paddy. Replaced instead by tall coconut palms, wide banana plantations and small canals flowing by quaint villages with communal tanks in which women with bodices are busy washing clothes. Rising above most villages is a tall gopuram, as if to emphasize the importance of the temple in these parts is only growing as we dive deeper.
VSP, meanwhile, has been busy on the phone after getting hit by a sudden bout of piety. Using his vast network of friends and contacts, he’s trying to arrange a cab for us at Kumbakonam – the plan being to see the mighty temples of Kumbakonam and Darasuram and then heading to Thanjavur to savour the sights of the Brihadeeshwarar. But his efforts seem to have gone in vain as there is no promise of a taxi. I placate him by telling him that we could get off the train at Thanjavur, explore the big temple and still make it to Trichy by sun down. Satisfied with this plan, he abandons his frenetic phone activity and buries himself, once again, in his time-tables. It’s an amazing thing to watch him do this. He will stare deeply at a point in the page for a bit, then suddenly shift his gaze to the outside, waiting for the distance marker boards embedded in the gravel beside the track. Once a board comes up, he’ll note the reading and get back to the timetable. Using an ancient yellow colored ball-point pen, he’ll jot down something in crooked and nearly undecipherable handwriting. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. I always wonder why he does it so diligently in every journey, but each time he clarifies other people’s doubts, answers questions and predicts crossings to within two mins of it actually happening, it becomes apparent.
Kumbakonam again is a longish halt where more people get down. There are now less than 10 people in our coach. We stop opposite a stall serving some freshly fried onion bhajjis, but I am too tired and full to take advantage. The steady gallop continues after Kumbakonam as we skim past towns with hoary pasts. Darasuram, Swamimalai, Sundaraperumal Koil, Papasnam, Pasupatikoil. Each one has a tall gopuram peaking above everything else in sight.
We dart into Thanjavur at some speed. For a second, I wonder if we aren’t going to stop but the driver seems to have yanked the brake lever at the right time and we shudder to a halt. The first order of business after getting down is to have a quick wash and then deposit the luggage in the cloak room. I vaguely remember there being lockers at the temple, but it is a risk I am not willing to take now. After finding the cloak room locked, I troop off towards the main luggage office to find the clerk who’ll do the needful. In a dark, dingy room, I find the said clerk. But he seems completely uninterested in helping me out, so I protest and throw around a few names from Southern Railway’s upper management. And pronto, two people are at my service! There is an elaborate ritual to getting your bags stored in the cloak room. You must first show your inward journey tickets, then get your outward journey verified, fill out a form in triplicate, pay the required Rs 6 (who comes up with such amounts?) and then secure your bags on a shelf. A gang of auto drivers descend upon us at the exit. After a couple of rounds of haggling, I’ve manged to bring down the fare to Rs 40. It seems cruel to pay this amount for a distance of around a km, but VSP is insistent on taking an auto.
Like all things grand, it takes a few seconds for the scale and beauty of the Brihadeeshwara temple to hit you. This isn’t the first time I am visiting the monument, but that just somehow adds to the whole tingling anticipation of setting foot inside again. Unlike any other temple, this one resembles a fort. There is a 20 ft deep and 40 ft wide moat between the outer and inner ramparts. A gaggle of school children are waiting patiently for their teacher to take a roll call at the outer wall. The boys in the group, as usual, are trying to pull of some practical jokes and girls are having none of it. The teacher seems harangued! We enter the temple using the double gates crowned by a big gopuram. Any other temple and place, this would have been the centre of attraction, but here it just leads you into the massive rectangular complex that holds the main shrine and its towering gopuram, the huge Nandi and various other sub-shrines. Immediately, I notice that there is some sort of restoration work going on at the upper levels of the rajagopuram. The latticed support beams wrap around the structure and I shake my head in anger and frustration. My plans of taking some truly spectacular shots in fading light are now thwarted. Resigned to just walking around, I climb the plinth on which the giant Nandi sits. The roof of this structure is beautifully painted in the style of the Nayaks and the bright blue offers up a nice contrast to the yellow-brown of granite.
The main shrine sits on another massive six feet high plinth. The pillared hall that leads to the inner sanctum is massive. The flowing style and intricacies of carvings on the pillars and roof takes one’s breath away. VSP wants to have a darshan of the main deity. I am reluctant at first, but give in after a bit. I am not religious at all and visits to temples for me are simply a matter of taking in the architecture. But here in the grandest of all temples, I want to experience, even if it is for a fleeting second, the unflinching faith that binds people. There is quite a long line at the assembly hall and eager pilgrims jostle for space and position. I firmly hold my ground when a rather large lady wants to jump the queue. She glares. I glare back. Her faith may be greater than mine, but it isn’t offering her any shortcuts. The garbhagriha is closed by way of a curtain and on enquiry VSP lets me know that the lingam is being decorated for the evening puja. After a few minutes of uncomfortable waiting, the curtains are thrown back, much like a reveal on a theatre stage. Everyone raises their arms, cups their hands in namaskarams and chants Om Nama Shivaya. There is a palpable buzz in the entire hall and for an instant, I feel a shiver of energy passing through my body. Is this the faith that people talk about? What was that? Why did I feel that? Before I can answer any of this, I am being pushed from behind by a massive wave of new pilgrims. Not wanting to be crushed, I dart for the exit.
I spend the next half hour wandering the rest of the complex while VSP does a tour of the sub-shrines. The Vinayaka Temple at the far end holds my attention for a while with its distinctive corbels in the sanctum. When the evening puja begins, I walk around the inner rampart which is lined with dozens of cloisters containing many small idols and intricate carvings in ancient Tamil. I review my photographs and sit for a good 10 minutes wondering about how it must have been 1000 years ago when the temple was constructed and at its prime. VSP’s back from his tour and we head for the exit, but not before some comic relief provided by an elderly lady who desperately wants to be photographed with the temple elephant but is terrified by the weight of the trunk on her head!
Instead of waiting for an auto, I decide that we’ll walk back to the station. VSP grudgingly approves and we hurry through some nice wide roads containing old, ornate buildings housing the collector’s and other district offices. The is-he-there-no-he-isn’t ritual at the cloak room in the station is played out once again. But this time, I have to head to the far end of an adjacent platform to cajole the person in charge to head back and restore my luggage to me. This costs us time and a train to Trichy. VSP isn’t all that happy, but I buy back his good humour by getting him to taste some wonderful bondas at the the canteen. A word here about this canteen: It is by far the best one I’ve ever had food at in the whole of the Indian Railways. Not an exaggeration. Breakfast is sublime with rich, ghee laden pongal, soft idlis and crisp vadais. The evening tiffin is soft yet crunchy bondas. Dinner is a wonderful idiappam served with real coconut milk. And the coffee? Best by a huge margin.
After what seems like an interminable wait, we board the crowded Nagore-Ernakulam Express. A couple of seats in the front coach are found and occupied. Surrounding us are a noisy family of pilgrims returning home to Thrissur from the Church of Our Lady of Succour at nearby Velankanni. While I rest my tired and by now slightly feverish body, VSP is off to the door. The driver seems to have a dinner date and in a little over 40 minutes, we are deposited in Trichy. It’s been one hell of a long, hot day. Both of us glance at each other and instictively say, “Lets get some beer.”