Just as birds wander here and there all day and then return to their nests in the evening—with perhaps some twigs in their beaks, or some food for their loved ones—so too, during Eid—Eid-ul-Fitr or Eid-ul-Azha—we also, after a whole year, head back to our village homes to be with our loved ones, carrying countless kinds of gifts. We take what we can as per our ability, but no matter how small their monetary value may be, the worth of sincerity is truly priceless.
Our two major festivals are Eid-ul-Fitr and Eid-ul-Azha. We long deeply to celebrate the joy of these festivals with our loved ones. Especially during Eid-ul-Fitr—the festival of breaking the fast.
No matter how long the holiday is, no one feels satisfied—everyone thinks, “Ah, if only there were two more days of leave, how wonderful it would be!” That’s why we often ‘overstay’ even after the holidays end, and it takes quite some time for the liveliness to return to our work.
Three main modes of transport for this return-to-the-nest journey are buses, trains, and launches. Haven’t you seen how thousands of people struggle, pushing and shoving, just to secure a place somehow?
Those who buy tickets on time manage to travel relatively comfortably, but those who delay cling to rooftops, footboards, bumpers—just being able to go is enough for them. And they are happy with that. All of this, as I said, is driven by the joy of birds returning to their nests—the main goal is simply to reach one’s own home, where someone’s parents, siblings, spouse, children, relatives, friends, or loved ones are waiting.
I, too, very much wish to go home during Eid or Eid-ul-Azha—but I can never quite make it to my village, Ijan in Murshidabad district of West Bengal in India—many relatives still live there. Invitations come, but for various reasons, it never happens.
If I did go, I would travel by train. It is my most favourite mode of transport. I have been a fan of trains since childhood. Since my father worked for the railway, I had a close connection with it. We used to get free passes six times a year—and student passes at concession rates as well. What joy I felt riding trains!
My father worked in the welfare section. Every year, the responsibility of printing the railway timetable fell there. So several timetables would come home, and I would claim one of them. Whenever I traveled somewhere, it went with me.
As soon as the train started moving—back then it was coal engines—it would give a “koo-oo” sound and begin to move. I would become alert, take out the timetable, find the name of the next station, and sit by the window. We used to travel in reserved second class. Earlier, I remember we also travelled in inter-class—now that no longer exists. There used to be first, second, inter, and third classes. Now ‘inter’ has disappeared.
Anyway, as each station came, I would match it with my time scale. Then I would start counting telephone poles. I had memorised how many poles made a mile. Looking at my father’s wristwatch, I would calculate the speed of the train—and my father himself helped me with the math.
I would write down the names of birds in a notebook—I carried one with me. If I didn’t, I would write on magazines or newspapers bought at stations for the journey, using a pencil. My journeys were quite long—sometimes to my elder sister’s house in Natore, sometimes to my aunt’s in Chuadanga, or to my other sister’s house in Khulna. Quite long journeys indeed. Crossing by steamer from Jagannathganj Ghat to Sirajganj Ghat, then to Ishwardi, and from there changing trains depending on the destination. On one side of the Padma there was meter gauge, on the other broad gauge, and in between another line.
As I counted telephone poles and wrote bird names (to later show off to my friends), I had to sit by the open window. My father allowed it, but my mother would scold me—because coal dust from the engine or dirt would blow in.
As soon as we boarded the train, my father would place orders at the cafeteria—sometimes tea and snacks. They used to serve meat cutlets, which I didn’t like at all. I would dip a slice of bread in tea and somehow satisfy myself, while waiting to board the steamer for dinner—that too was excellent railway cooking. What I loved most was the pudding served in a teacup. Before that, my father would give me the chicken leg piece on my plate. As the only son, I enjoyed every possible privilege.
There was crowding on trains then, and there is now. Not much has changed. Back then, the population was much smaller, and accordingly there were fewer trains. Now there are all kinds—express trains, mail trains, commuter trains—and the number of people has multiplied many times over. So the crowd is intense. Yet people still prefer train journeys despite the crowd, I believe. Because it is safer, more economical, and more enjoyable.
Sitting by the window and looking outside fills my heart with joy. You come to know the country, understand it—how beautiful my land is. The beauty of the fields of crops enchants everyone—sometimes I see farmers ploughing, sometimes harvesting; flocks of pigeons and sparrows darting across the fields; boats sailing on rivers; distant hills or village scenes—all moving in the opposite direction as I watch. It is an extraordinary delight—ah, it gives me goosebumps.
Perhaps I have shown a bit of bias in my writing—after all, I belong to the railway world! But surely every journey has its own charm. I am afraid of water, so I don’t travel much by that route, and buses make me feel suffocated. Still, I would say, the joy of train travel is unique—I deeply miss it.
“Rail gari jhomajhom / Pa pichhle alur dom.”
We used to sing this rhyme in chorus, matching the rhythm of the train’s movement.
I don’t know whether today’s children are familiar with it. In this digital age, many of the joys of our time have faded or disappeared—while young people now enjoy making TikTok videos.
Still, that too is a kind of joy. But we should try to keep it as pure as possible. My writing is getting long—before ending, let me share a story about trains. Railways came to the Indian subcontinent in 1853, and electric trains were introduced in 1925 in Bombay (now Mumbai).
The main difference between the two was in how they started moving. The earlier trains would begin slowly, gently, whereas electric trains would sound a siren and suddenly dash forward.
This is a story from that time. Electric trains had just been introduced. A gentleman had come to the station to see off his family—they were going to their village home. He couldn’t go because he didn’t get leave. As the train was about to depart, the child sitting by the window was crying. The father stood on the platform, trying to comfort the child. Just as he leaned in to give a loving kiss—suddenly the train gave a siren and rushed off. He couldn’t kiss his child—instead, the kiss landed on the cheek of another passenger sitting two seats away!
Eid Mubarak.
May your Eid journeys be safe, joyful, and full of happiness.
* Abul Hayat is an actor and theatre director.