Dhaka Memories: End of an Era
art work by ariyana
The red embers spewed out of the iron locomotive as it made its way along the double tracks, pulling several passenger carriages one winter evening. A boy of six or seven stood a short distance away from the tracks, alternately terrified and fascinated, not knowing whether the red balls flaming up and raining down would reach him. He wanted to get closer, wanted to have an even closer look at the cascading shower of red, but instinct held him back, as the steam engine roared past him. Steam belched out of its top, bells clanged furiously, accompanied by a piercing bellow from its inside that was a "who-oo-oo-oo-oo-th", barging in on the all-too-familiar periodic "whoosh-whoosh" of its steam engine. That little boy was yours truly, then a student of kindergarten or Class I at Holy Cross School (oh yes, we boys were allowed to continue till Class III, after which came boys' schools), who was about to head home located only a couple of hundred meters or so from the railway tracks, one of the very few houses that were dotted around Elephant Road. There were wide open spaces to let a boy run free, and a variety of trees, including olive, mango, amloki, and other fruit-bearing flora, whose bounty was there to take for the asking. And we took in plenty, but the cornucopia never seemed to dry up. The railway line snaked across what is now the asphalt strip called Kataban road, and the trains ran over it and under Hatirpool, the humpback bridge over which rickshaws and horse carriages huffed and puffed, along with the rare car. My parents, siblings, and I would occasionally ride in the carriages to visit relatives and family friends in Rankin Street, Becharam Dewry, and other places in what is now referred to as the 'old town,' but was then the very heart of Dhaka (in some ways, it still is). I vaguely recall the quaint street lights that one still gets to see in old photographs and period movies, placed at regular intervals along the main thoroughfares. The carriage would stop on the other side of the rail tracks, and we would cross them on foot to traverse the short distance to our house. But, more than anything else, I was fascinated by the steam locomotive. Every so often I would stand under a majestic eucalyptus tree that stood a few meters away from the tracks, and watch the trains go by, with the steam engines pulling along a long line of carriages. The rhythmic clack of the massive iron wheels would automatically stimulate me into mentally reciting over and over and over the refrain that was in perfect cadence with the sound that they made: "Jhikir jhikir Mymensingh, Dhaka jaite koto deen." The train guards waving green or red flags, the sight of men shoveling heaps of coal to feed the gigantic boiler, sweat streaming down their faces and bodies, and the driver manning the locomotive all together was an awe-inspiring sight. I wanted to one day be an engine driver, in command of an entire train, going places, free as a bird, the master of all that I surveyed. The eucalyptus tree under which I conjured up such romantic visions around the steam train was also a silent witness to one of my heroic rescue efforts (not that I have had many of those!). The place teemed with raucous birds of so much variety that I am unable to recall many of the species. One that I do remember, but have not seen for years in Dhaka city, is the kite. This predatory bird's screech was often a harbinger of doom for some poor victim. One morning I was making my way to the tree for train-watching when I heard the screech of doom, looked up, and there was a kite flying quite low, with a chicken gripped firmly in its talons. It was flying low enough for me to see the little thing, and hear its loud terrified cheep-cheep-cheep. I ran after the pair, screaming and yelling as I went along, until, as if my unasked prayer had been answered, the kite perched on the lowest branch of the tree, seemingly oblivious to my outrage, ready to tear into the little thing it had in a vice-like grip in its claws. At which point I let loose with a hail of stones. You see, small stones positioned inside the railway line inevitably found their way well outside their location. Thank heaven for such small mercies! I did not succeed in hitting the bird, but disturbed it enough for it to drop the chick, and then fly away, probably with a baleful screech aimed at my direction. The chick survived. I took it home, it grew up to become a rooster, and ended its life by getting sacrificed for our dinner table. There were sad tales, too, about the track. I pride myself on having a sharp memory, and I remember, when still a little boy, I saw a man lying on one side, having been cut in half by an overnight train. After all these years, that scene refuses to fade away from my memory. He was a thin man, clad in a white punjabi, with a full white beard and white hair probably reaching below his neckline, lying on his back, with his body cut in half. The blood had coagulated by the time I got there, and the distinct stench of decay was in the air. Poor soul, cut down in the evening of his life. And then there were those fires lighting up the night sky as the rows of thatched-bamboo barracks, which stood approximately in the area that now houses the Dhaka University Press and its adjoining buildings, burnt down, with tales of incinerated residents. I never got to see them. The romance I have associated with the steam engine and the railway line was enhanced by the numerous journeys I undertook to visit my father who had been posted, alternately in (greater) Chittagong and (greater) Sylhet area. Besides people watching and vistas rapidly passing by as the train chugged along, I remember a particularly interesting episode. I was then ten or eleven, and traveling with my mother and brothers. We shared the compartment with a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen, and her mother. At a brief stop in Luxam or Akhaura, a young man in trendy drainpipes and a blazing red shirt was standing on the platform, staring intently at the girl, who was sitting by the window and studiously avoiding his gaze. As the train resumed its journey, the fellow took a step forward and winked at her several times in rapid succession until he disappeared from our collective view. Even then I thought that a pretty strange way for expressing romantic interest. Oh well, whatever titillates! Sadly, the steam engine has become a relic, a victim to the inexorable demands of time. Not too long ago I watched, either on National Geographic or on Discovery, a documentary that recounted the early days, the years of glory, and the sad end of the steam engine in India. A lump developed in my throat. I had just finished watching the end of an era, when train travel was a rhapsody of romance, when Time took its own sweet time in moving forward, when I could take all the time to indulge in endless flights of fancy. A part of my romantic self had just died a second death with the end of the film. Shahid Alam is Head, Media & Communications department, Independent University, Bangladesh.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments