When I was a child, trains were my gateway to adventure. Every winter and summer, my family and I would take the train to visit my grandparents. Back then, the compartments were open and airy—no air conditioning, just the hum of the wheels on the tracks and the sound of the wind rushing in through the windows. Those train rides had a rhythm all on their own, and they were filled with a kind of magic you don’t easily find today.
One of the best parts of these trips was the tiffin carrier my mother packed with care—filled with aloo sabzi and puris, and maybe some pickles for good measure. It always seemed like the moment we boarded the train, the appetites grew. There was something about the clickety-clack of the rails that made everyone reach for their food. I loved having my bed made, spreading the sheets, and placing the blanket and pillow. And then I would sit and watch other passengers as they came and went. I’d watch other families do the same, each with their own rituals, their own laughter and chatter.
It wasn’t just the food that was exciting; it was everything else that came with it. The vendors strolling through the aisles, hawking tea, snacks, and toys. The conversations that flowed among strangers, each with a story to tell. Even the sights outside the window were fascinating—the ever-changing landscape, with fields, villages, and distant hills. It was like watching a living, breathing map unfold before your eyes.
One summer, the heat was unbearable, and we were all sweltering in our seats. My father disappeared at a station and returned with a massive block of ice, which he wrapped in a cloth and placed near us. The relief was instant, and it felt like we were sitting beside a mountain stream. Such moments, simple yet profound, made a lasting impression on my train memories.
There were times when our train would stop at a station where we had relatives. Despite the absence of mobile phones, they always seemed to know when we were arriving. They’d be there with tiffin carriers full of homemade food, ready to hand over through the window or at the door. It was a joyful reunion each time, with hugs, smiles, and the delightful aroma of freshly cooked meals. As a child, I was fascinated by the array of containers they brought. It was like opening a treasure chest, each box holding a different surprise.
Eventually, as I got older, my family started taking flights. Indian Airlines ruled. Then came the era of Modiluft, Damania, and East West Airlines. I remember the first time I flew alone—it was a flight to Mumbai while I was in college. The experience was thrilling, and air travel back then had a different charm. You had to go to the airline’s office to buy a ticket, and you’d get a neat ticket folder with flaps. I was always intrigued by the flight attendants, and at one point, I even dreamed of becoming one myself. But when I told an uncle about my dream, he laughed and said, “Do you really want to clean up other people’s vomit?” That quickly put an end to my aspirations.
One of the best parts about flying was the food. Indian Airlines and Jet Airways had great food.  Jet Airways used to give out these Imli candies – I always asked for extra! The excitement of opening a meal box on a plane was a special treat. Back then, the cutlery was metal, but people would often steal it, so airlines switched to plastic eventually. I remember seeing Kingfisher forks or Jet Airways knives in people’s homes—a small souvenir from a bygone era.
Despite the excitement of flying, it didn’t quite compare to the joy of train travel—looking out of the window, seeing the world rush by. It felt more authentic, more connected to the real world. I miss those days, especially now when air travel has become more about efficiency than experience.
Train travel also showed me the kindness of strangers. On one journey from Pune to Kolkata, I ran out of money, and my fellow passengers took care of me. They shared their food and even paid for my meals, trusting that I’d reimburse them at the end of the journey. And I did, right there at Howrah station, with a sense of gratitude that still lingers.
It’s these moments—the kindness of strangers, the shared meals, the simple joys—that I cherish most. They remind me of a time when travel wasn’t just about getting from one place to another, but about the connections we made along the way. My son has inherited my love for trains, and I encourage it, knowing that he’s discovering a world filled with stories.
“Travelling – it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” — Ibn Battuta, the 14th-century Moroccan scholar, explorer, and traveller.
