Track Tales
The sight of the metal beast with a heart of gold, approaching the cemented section among the grass almost always warmed me up with a feeling of a mother’s hand ruffling the hair on my head. The ride would be special as my mother tightened her grip on my hand with one hand as she waited for the two compartment motorcade to come to a complete stop before proceeding to climb the two step to the interiors.
The floor of the compartment had grooves in between the wooden strips. My mother would want to go to the right where the ladies and children would have seats reserved for them, but they were uninteresting as these seats faced each other. I would drag her to the front of the car where the seats faced front and were split in a 1–2 formation. The single seat on the left of the aisle was preferred but it would be occupied more often than not. The two-seater would do for now. The seats were made of single plywood but bent to a seat shape and polished to a high degree of wooden shininess. It also had a curved handle on the back to help the passengers to hold themselves.
I loved the seat in the front as there were two other windows apart from the ones on the side. This gave a peek into the driver’s cabin. It was open on the left side and you could see the tracks and the corresponding surface of grass or tar speeding past, hypnotizing you temporarily. The right side window did not give this view as it was closed and enmeshed. The windows were small and it had panels that dropped into the body of the car when you unlatched them. It would usually be closed but sometimes you could open them to have a looksee inside. The first thing you notice that there is no seat and the khaki uniformed person would be standing with one foot on a metal plate with a knob on it. His left hand would be on a contraption with a knob (the accelerator). This on moving right in steps would increase the speed and vice versa. On the right with a different handle was the brake. To the far right would be another handle which would huff and hiss as the pressure gets released observed on a dial attached. The foot would stamp on the floor knob for the familiar “dong, dong” indicating its approach.
The ticket checker approaches with a polished semi-circular brown leather case handing across his khaki uniform, the tickets of different denominations are grasped in the palm of his left hand and the currency notes are folded lengthwise and inserted between his fingers forming a “U”. My mother lets go of my hand and unlocks her left hand where her money is kept rolled in her tiny handkerchief and takes out a Rupee or Two and hands it over. The princely sum of 0.50 p paid for the two of us, the change duly returned to the vault, I continue to see the shops and people whizz pass as we sway and rock our way to the destination. It was not a fast journey but definitely gave me time to observe. If I looked up the panels above the many hands holding the horizontal rod traversing the length of the car, I could see some adverts of beauty products like Cuticura Powder, Boroline Antiseptic Cream, Brylcream Hair Cream, Forhan’s toothpaste and some public interest messages like “Small family, Happy family” and such. The large fan apologetically rotating inside its cage completed the picture.
A little before my destination arrives, we make our way to the wide doorway with the central pole. I tug at my mother’s hand to step down to feel the wind rushing by. The conductor reaches up and pulls on a string swiftly once, which rings the cycle bell near the driver’s cabin. The braking slows down the carriage as it passes the first set of people waiting to climb the rear carriage, then it trundles to a stop in front of a few people with outstretched hands reaching for the pole. The conductor bellows to the group “Nabte din, nabte din” (allow deboarding first). I step off, with my mother still holding on. We quickly cross the stretch of road to the safety of the footpath (pavement) and proceed with a spring in my step of my first tramcar ride Lake Market to Gariahat on No: 24.
Thank you for all the rides on the oldest tramways of Asia, courtesy Calcutta Tramways Corporation during my growing days, the occasional travel on footboard or on the wheel cover, the running alongside to match its speed, the wonderment of its tail in the sky touching the overhead electric lines and the romance of its warning bell and the comfort of its lazy swaying.
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