There’s no better way to truly understand India than by traveling its railways—a bold claim, perhaps, but one that’s hard to dispute once you’ve experienced it. But here’s where it gets controversial: while many flock to the scenic or heritage routes, I argue that the real magic lies in the ordinary journeys, the ones that simply take you from point A to point B. It’s in these unassuming trips that India reveals itself most fully—its people, its landscapes, its chaos, and its charm. And this is the part most people miss: the railways aren’t just a mode of transport; they’re a living, breathing palimpsest, layering stories upon stories, much like India itself.
I carry the rhythm of Indian trains in my bones—the clatter and hum that feel like a second heartbeat. Jawaharlal Nehru once likened India to a palimpsest, where no layer completely erases the one before. That’s exactly how I see train travel here. Each journey inscribes something new: the fellow passengers, the languages, the climates, the landscapes. It’s a sensory overload, but one that stays with you long after you’ve disembarked.
Take, for instance, a journey I made in 1998—a summer scorched by nuclear testing and temperatures soaring past 50°C. I boarded a three-tier sleeper in Mumbai, bound for Dehradun, 1,000 miles north. The train abandoned its schedule, the journey stretching past 50 hours. I remember the metallic heat of the window grilles, the relentless wind, the sizzle of water droplets hitting the platform, and the slow melt of my rubber soles. Yet, weeks later, after trekking from the Arabian Sea to a Himalayan glacier, I looked back on that rail ordeal with a strange fondness. It was brutal, but it was India—raw and unfiltered.
I often wonder if that memory seeped into my novel, Railsong, where a heat-addled protagonist embarks on a similar odyssey. Physically drained but sustained by the kindness of strangers, she emerges transformed. Is it controversial to say that such journeys are as much about self-discovery as they are about exploring a country? I think not. The railways force you to confront the unknown, whether it’s sharing a compartment with strangers or navigating delays caused by collapsed footbridges or cow-related accidents.
Speaking of strangers, let me tell you about a trip from Mumbai to Delhi. My companions? Three taciturn policemen, one nursing an injured toe, another buried in a newspaper, and the third glued to his phone. As the hours passed, their stories unspooled. They were on a manhunt, chasing a murderer across three states. It was gripping, like something out of a movie. And then there was the food—always the food. No dining cars? No problem. Platform vendors offer everything from farm-fresh lychees to Mumbai’s famous vada pav. On the Mumbai-Pune route, Karjat’s vendors align with the carriage doors, selling deep-fried potato balls nestled in soft buns with chutneys. In Lonavala, it’s chikki and chocolate walnut fudge. In Telangana, ograni—a peppy mix of puffed rice and spices—awaits. But here’s a question: Is railway food a delight or a gamble? Thousands complain about foil-boxed meals, yet eating remains a sacred ritual on the rails.
Despite the challenges—delays, overcrowding, the occasional derailment—train travel in India is affordable, sustainable, and deeply rewarding. My family and I swear by it. Our girls prefer the open expanse of the railways to the claustrophobia of flights. Sure, delays happen, but they’re often instructive. A collapsed footbridge during the Kumbh Mela? A derailment in Bihar? These aren’t just inconveniences; they’re windows into the complexities of Indian life.
And then there are the passenger trains—the unsung heroes of Indian Railways. Slow, unreserved, and often halting at obscure stations, they offer a full-blooded immersion into local life. The dress, the produce, the food—it’s all there, unfiltered and authentic. But here’s a thought: In a world obsessed with speed and luxury, is there something profoundly revolutionary about embracing the slow, the ordinary, the imperfect?
So, here’s my challenge to you: Skip the touristy routes. Hop on a regular train. Share a meal with a stranger. Let the delays teach you something. Because on the railways, the intimate and the epic collide, creating something far greater than the sum of its parts. And isn’t that what travel—what life—is all about?
Rahul Bhattacharya’s novel, Railsong, is published by Bloomsbury (£18.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
