Guntakal Junction !

Back then, Guntakal in Andhra Pradesh was no ordinary station. It was the “heart” of the southern railway network. Tracks crisscrossed the Indian peninsula like arteries, veins, and capillaries. But they had to pass through Guntakal Junction. It pumped fresh blood into the entire railway anatomy!

The Madras Mail from erstwhile Bombay ambled its way at eventide. The setting sun lit up a terrain pocked with grotesque and gigantic boulders. It had to be Guntakal!  As the train anchored, there was an electric buzz at the station.

Guntakal’s station vendors appeared to have been trained like classical musicians! Decades of “riyaz” in selling their wares had bestowed them a sonorous voice. The coffee vendor went- “coffee-coffee-coffee” in a deep baritone. The “vada” vendor’s voice crackled like a serial firecracker. He let loose a string of “vada-vada-vada-vada”, with incredible lungpower, not once pausing for breath!

A co-passenger lamented, “The train is late by 1 hour!” On this neighboring seat, Mr. Know-all comforted him, “Don’t worry! The train has enough “running time” at night! He will easily make it up!”

The adjoining platform bustled with activity as another train rolled in. Mr. Know-all gushed, “That is the train coming from Madras and going to Bombay!” In a month from now, the holidays will be over, and we will be on that train, on the way back. It was as if, that train was a mirror image of ours and if we looked closer, we would spot our reflected self, albeit a month older!

In the distance, a lonesome diesel engine passed by.  Mr. Know-all remarked, “That was our engine!” The engine looked battle-bruised and scarred. He had done his job and will now pass the baton to a new engine.

Immediately, father and I got down and hurried to the end of the train. Indeed, our train was decapitated- it had no engine. In the distance was a gleaming diesel engine. It backed up towards our train rumbling like a giant monster. The platform beneath our feet shook. The buffer of the engine softly kissed the buffer of the carriage. The rail attendant coupled the hooks of the engine and carriage with two strikes of the hammer.

The new engine bristled with enthusiasm. It sounded its booming horn to alert everyone. The engine driver was seated high up by the window. I waved at him. He smiled and waved back! A thrill ran down my spine. The world’s greatest celebrity had responded!

I asked my father excitedly, “Can I be an engine driver when I grow up?” Father said, “Of course!”  That was my dream- to drive a diesel engine from Guntakal, over hills and dales, all the way to distant Madras!