There was no Instagram or mobile phones in 1983-84 so I have no pictures to go with this story.
Dadu had it all planned out. We would step out of home at 4 pm. After he and I had changed into our ‘outside clothes’ and after he had combed his hair meticulously. All 7 strands that remained. An act made me and my younger brother giggle a lot. Today both of us are in various stages of balding and can empathise with dadu better.
Dadu and I would then walk to Gachhtola. I was 10. Him 65 or so. This was close to 40 years back. We would take the 41/1 no bus which would leave at 4.30 pm. Get off at Babu Ghat around 45 min later. Or more than 60, if there was a michhil at the Brigade. Then take the ferry to Howrah. Get off, cross the road and walk into the grand old Howrah Station.
‘It’s been so many years since he retired from the railways and yet he loves trains and stations so much’, Didu would say with a smidgeon of sarcasm and we kids would giggle. The association was tenuous. Dadu was in the library services of the Indian Railways in the post independence years and had played a significant role in setting it up. He was a desk man who sat at the headquarters at Delhi but was in love with the world of trains.
Dadu’s face would light up when we reached the station. We would buy platform tickets and go in. The first stop was the Himachal apple juice machine where grandpa and his eldest grandson, a rather chubby one at that, would enjoy plastic cups of synthetic sugared water which tasted more ambrosial than any cold pressed organic apple juice in a plant based cafe later would for the young boy.
We would then climb up to the retiring room, buy more tickets and walk in. If memory serves me right, it had a terrace which looked onto the Hooghly. A grand balcony, readers on Instagram later told me. We would stand there taking in the breeze. Watching the sunset. Feeling happy and at peace. This was our thing.
Next stop was the station canteen where dadu would order a dosa for each of us. Served in a sectioned stainless steel plate. Sambar and chutney blending into each other the way the Hooghly would eventually flow into the Bay of Bengal. No dosa that I’ve had later, be it in a five star buffet or in some much recommended favourite joint in the south, would give me the same joy.
As I wrote this story it struck me that these trips must have been precious getaways for my grandpa. He belonged to a generation where men did not express their feelings at home. He’d retired a few years back and moved into Kolkata from Delhi. Maybe this took a bit of adjusting to. He had just lost his son in law and must have been worried for his daughter and his two grandsons. The elder of whom he took on these little getaways. Way before the term ‘be a tourist in your own city’ was coined, but then dadu was always rather ahead of his times.
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Baby Loaf and Nimki |
This is such a warm writeup, that I got hooked and read it across all your social handles.Somehow it reminded me of so many things from my childhood. Thanks so much for sharing this. 🙂
Thanks so much. Would love to hear your stories.