Worth every whistle

I am cooped up in the car at a huge traffic gridlock on a weekday morning in Bengaluru. Horns blare around me and almost everyone is impatiently scanning the road to find that magic spot to move ahead. I look around absorbing the scene and suddenly a memory flashes in me of a different time, of a different wait that had no frustration or impatience associated with it but simple acceptance.

I grew up in the outskirts of the temple city of Madurai in Tamil Nadu in the ’70s and ’80s. Our lives revolved around the railway level crossing gate at Koodal Nagar station, which was the only landmark required to reach our house. For my maternal grandmother visiting us from the village, the proximity of the house to the railway gate was a sort of compensation for its remote location otherwise. A wait at the gate was a rite of passage to living in its vicinity. But what astonishes me today is how we had accepted the wait at the gate gracefully and planned our lives around it.

I recall how during schooldays, I would wake up early but lapse into a dreamy trance, toothpaste and toothbrush in hand, in the backyard until the hoot of the morning train would send me rushing to get ready. Once ready, there was a tough choice awaiting me. The 8 am bus would get me to school too early. But the 8.15 am bus, would get me there just on time or too late, depending on the waiting time at the level crossing gate. In my seven years of taking the bus to school, I never figured the ‘right timing’. I invariably took the early bus, prompting the family joke that I had the janitor’s job at school. Habits die hard and I am still the first at my workplace in Bengaluru in spite of the traffic.

Back then, the wait at the railway crossing was festive and a perfect opportunity to unwind. In a spirit of bonhomie, those who had grabbed a seat in the bus would devote these minutes to stretching limbs, thus offering the other commuters the chance to rest their posterior. Peddlers moved around doing brisk business. Depending on the time of the day, schoolgoers could be doing two things — last-minute revision if they were on their way to school; or giggling and chatting when headed home. A gate wait after school hours would often make us leave the bus and walk the short distance home. I made many lasting friendships and have had some tough and deep conversations during these strolls. It loosened the mood unlike the traffic wait where I would see faces tightening and glowering.

Walking through the archaic revolving door-style side gate, with pedestrians and cyclists jostling for space in both directions, was like a game that tests problem-solving skills. I wonder why the swanky turnstiles at the metro stations make me nervous though.

Today, while stuck in a traffic jam, my eyes would seek the policeman who is mostly helpless and at the mercy of the traffic. Back at the railway gate, the gateman was in a different league — a person completely in charge. The sight of him effortlessly catching the key thrown by the engine driver from the moving train was a delight to watch. He was respected for his wisdom in deciding which vehicle needs to pass before he closed the gate with the crankshaft. He also carried lightly the secrets of many of our neighbours who would seek a walk and a silent companion along the tracks.

Once in a while, an ambulance whisks by amidst the chaotic traffic, momentarily engaging the attention of the commuters. I see the empty faces staring at it. I think of the wide-eyed face of the child from the village who was seeing the train for the first time.

I cringe at the hooting cars at the traffic gridlock but I waited patiently for the hooting train at the gate.

I evade the question on traffic holdups where I now live. The gate gave character to the place I lived.

I yearn for the peace that came with that acceptance then to escape the helpless frustration now.

I seek the railway gate wait while at the traffic wait.

(As of 2012 when statistics are last available, Indian Railway has about 31,000 level-crossing gates out of which about 18,000 are manned.)

Sumathy Krishnan is a freelance writer based in Bengaluru

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