Book & Author
Paul Theroux and Steve McCurry: The Imperial Way — By Rail from Peshawar to Chittagong
By Dr Ahmed S. Khan
Chicago, IL
Among the key remnants of British Raj in South Asia, which still remain beneficial to people are Tea, Cricket, English language and Railways. In India, all remnants are being used to their fullest advantage and potential compared to Pakistan and Bangladesh. Especially the Railways in India remains as an effective mode of transportation for the poor and the middle class. The Indian railway system was conceived, by Governor General Lord Harding, for improving the control of the East India Company over the country; in 1843 pointing out the benefits of Railways, he had observed: “to the commerce, government and military control of the country.”
There are paradoxes about Indian Railways: it is regarded as a great colonial legacy — left by the British Raj — that was designed to serve the interests of the colonial power and not for the service of people. The system was built by money collected from Indian taxes, not British. The railway was designed to transport agricultural and mineral resources to ports to ship them to Britain for processing. For the first one hundred years of operation, the Indian Railway system was controlled and operated by the British companies. The railway system was an example of the class divide: third class compartments with wooden seats for Indian masses and luxury first class for the British and their partners in crimes — the Brown sahibs — the local elite groomed by the British to help them to administer and manage the colony.
Without the Railways the British could not have controlled India so effectively; after a slow start in 1853, the Railways project got into a rapid expansion after the 1857 revolt — and became an instrument of the Raj to exert control over India. Later, the Railways also turned out to be an effective factor for holding together India's diverse cultural, ethnic, and racial groups, and it became a successful means of transportation of people and goods all across India. Paul Theroux, in the foreword of Railways of the Raj by Satow and Desmond, has observed: “The railway was the bloodstream of the Raj, and it affected nearly everyone. It linked the centers of population; and the cities, which until then had been identified with their temples and forts, became identified with their railway stations, Howrah with Calcutta, Victoria with Bombay, Egmore and Madras Central with Madras.’ In a way, the Railways helped India to emerge as a united entity.
During the 1950s to 1970s period, travel by train used to be the main mode of transportation in Pakistan. Prior to a train trip families used to prepare their food tiffin, tea thermos, and acquire reading materials for the long journey. On all railway stations, in addition to tea and food stalls, there were well-stocked book stalls which used to sell a variety of newspapers, magazines and books for adults and children at a very nominal price (few annas). Adults had an array of newspapers, digests, and magazines to choose from: Pakistan Times, Morning News, Dawn, The Sun, Hurriyet, Jang, Anjam, Mashriq, Masawat, Jasarat, Imroz, Urdu Digest, Aalami Digest, Zindagi, Akhbar-e-Jahan, and Alkhbar-e-Khawateen. Children had the choice of selecting magazines like Naunehal, BachooN key Dunya, Talim-o-Turbiyat, Phool, Khiloona, and Bhai Jaan. Naunehal was the most popular magazine among the children. The reading habit was a second nature for most adults and children travelers.
Mr Shahid Siddiqui, President, American Tours, Lombard, IL, was an avid railway traveler in India (before 1947) and Pakistan (after 1947). He recalls highlights of his train travels, from Shikarpur to Quetta and from Quetta to Chaman, during the 1950s and 1960s: “After Sibi train used to enter the mountainous area and it passes through several tunnels. From Aab-e-gum train used to get an additional engine at the back of the train. Two engines used to bring the train to Mach Station. Between the train and station platform there were few tracks; train used to go straight leaving the station behind. Finally, the train used to stop and then it backed up switching tracks to reach the platform and then it used to stop at the station. From here also one more engine used to get attached to the train to push the train to Koalpure — the highest train station to Quetta. From here, all extra engines were detached; only one engine used to take the train to Quetta.”
Reminiscing about his Quetta to Chaman journey by train, Mr Shahid Siddiqui recalls: “On this track Shelabagh is the highest train station when the train stops here, the engine is hardly few feet away from the entrance of the longest tunnel in Pakistan. It is about three miles long and takes about 25 to 30 minutes to pass through the tunnel. Half tunnel goes uphill and half downhill — one can sense this — due to speed and change in engine noise after the halfway point. On the other side of the tunnel one can see concrete bunkers on the mountains built by the British when they were trying to build the railway up to Kandahar in Afghanistan, but Afghans did not let them build the railway. From these bunkers the British used to fight freedom loving Afghans and the British were never able to go beyond Chaman. Shelabagh is a very pretty hill station in a valley and after the train crosses the tunnel it is an open vista with beautiful scenery though the mountains are barren, no vegetation is visible.”
Mr Shahid Siddiqui also recalls one of his unforgettable train journeys from Shikarpur to Sibi in Pakistan: “From Jacobabad to Sibi, it is all flat land, total desert, no trees of any kind, few hardy shrubs here and there. You do not see any mountains on the horizon, but this desert used to flood every summer without rain. It was believed that somewhere in Baluchistan’s mountains rainwater used to come in this desert flatland and due to this flooding, trains going to Quetta used to stop in Jacobabad being a big city and trains coming from Quetta to all over Pakistan used to stop in Sibi for days until the flooded area was declared passable by trains. Sometimes train traffic was stopped for more than a week. Anyway, I started my journey from Shikarpur to Sibi by a day train. It was about a six or seven hours journey to Sibi. Before the train arrived in Jacobabad, I started hearing people talking in the compartment that trains are not going beyond Jacobabad due to flooding. I thought about how these people know here in the train, let me see what happens in Jacobabad. Sure enough, when the train arrived at Jacobabad, there were lots of people on the platform. I found out that some people are there from one to four days. I had the option to go back to Shikarpur, but an idea popped up in my mind, what an incredible surprise it would be to go to Sibi by the first train after the flooding. With that idea I decided to stay in the overcrowded compartment no matter what. Three days passed, and the train did not move. And every day other trains were arriving full of people and the station was getting more and more crowded. In those three days I met some other people who were going to Sibi. I know at least one person whom I have met in Sibi on my previous visits. Third day we decided that we do not have much luggage and water is only about a mile or so on the tracks due to which the trains are not going. We will take the train up to the last station. From there we will carry our luggage on our shoulders and cross the flooded area on foot and take the train on the other side of the flooded area. We took our luggage and said goodbye to the fellow passengers. The other passengers laughed at us and told us you cannot go. But we boarded the train that was going up to the last station before the flooded area. We all, the four of us, got off the train at this small station and found out that the flooded area is about twenty miles long and impassable. Train has already gone back to Jacobabad, and there is no train going to Jacobabad until tomorrow. So, we got stuck at this small station for an overnight stay. I do not think there was anybody living there except the railway station crew.”
Reflecting on the hospitality of the railway crew and the conclusion of his journey, Mr Shahid Siddiqui observes: “Assistant Station Master knew that there were four hungry passengers staying overnight. He sends daal (lentils) and roti (bread) for us. It was such an incredible hospitality and generosity of this kind person at this desolate place. Daal and roti were so delicious, I could taste them for years! Luckily the first train that came from Jacobabad was given clearance to go through that flooded area. The train took about 30 minutes to cross the flooded area. After it came on the other side on dry tracks the engineer gave a lot of long whistles and ran the train to full throttle. Finally, I arrived at Sibi in the evening to everyone’s surprise as they knew trains were not running. What an excitement and incredible thrill to arrive by the first train in four days! Alas, those were the golden days of train travels in Pakistan!”
Paul Theroux has written about Indian Railways in his book The Great Railway Bazaar. In his revisit that emerged as his book titled The Imperial Way: By Rail From Peshawar to Chittagong (1985) he describes his train journey from Peshawar to Chittagong via India. He started in Peshawar, near the Khyber Pass (during that time it was full of Afghan refugees); journeyed through Islamabad and Lahore to India and Simla, through New Delhi and then Agra; through tea plantations of Darjeeling on to Calcutta; and finally arrived in the flooded Chittagong on the Bay of Bengal. The book shines light on the legacy of the Raj via Theroux's prose and Steve McCurry's exquisite photographs.
Answering the Question: “India. How does this vast, overpopulated subcontinent manage to run, and even prosper?” Paul Theroux believes that for the past 170 years the chief reason has been the railway — dusty and monumental, its trains often seem as ancient as India itself. In Pakistan, the Railways appear to be part of the landscape. And in Bangladesh, an old, reliable network of track brings hope to beleaguered.
Paul Theroux (b. 1941), a novelist and a traveler, has authored several novels after his five-year stay in Africa and a three-year stay in Singapore. His major works of fiction include Picture Palace and The Mosquito Coast. His prominent travel titles include The Great Railway Bazaar, The Old Patagonian Express, and The Kingdom by the Sea.
Steve McCurry (b. 1950), a freelance photographer, has won the1984 Magazine Photographer of the Year Award for his National Geographic work. He has also won four first prizes in the 1984 World Press Photo contest with entries that included The Imperial Way pictures. In 1980, after the Soviet invasion, he covered Afghanistan for Time magazine and was awarded the Robert Capa Medal by the Overseas Press Club for that photography.
The author starts his rail journey in Peshawar and narrates his observations about the state of Railways in Pakistan: “Ten years ago I had come to Peshawar and asked for a bedroll for the train and was told they had none. This evening I inquired again and was told they had one — but only one: ‘You may book it.’ I gladly did so and then stood with it under a whirring fan. Most of the larger railway stations in Pakistan and India have ceiling fans on the outdoor platforms, which is why the people waiting are spaced so evenly - clustered in little groups at regular intervals. The humming fans make one feel one is trapped in a food processor. It was an air-conditioned compartment and in its grumbling way the machinery actually worked. I was soon travelling under a bright moon through Nowshera and across the Indus River at Attock on its hundred-year-old bridge. We passed through Rawalpindi and Jhelum, too, but by then I was asleep. Just before Wazirabad at dawn there was a knock on the door of my compartment. ‘You wanting breakfast?’ I could have been wrong of course, but it seemed to be the same brisk man who had asked the question ten years ago: it was the same bad eye, the same dirty turban, the same lined face. And the breakfast was the same — eggs, tea, bread on heavy stained crockery. I did not think it was a coincidence. I had returned to take this long trip again to see what had changed. I had noticed very few changes…but what else was different? Very little; and more interestingly, the same people seemed to be running things — driving trains, selling tickets, making breakfasts and punching tickets. The reason was that people who run railways tend to have the job for life and to take it fairly seriously. The railway is one of the most traditional of institutions and, for better or worse, it runs in Pakistan pretty much the same as it always ran. It has not really been modernized, but you get the idea that even modernization wouldn't change it very much. The odd thing is that throughout the Sub-continent the railway seems so profoundly part of the culture that it hardly seems related to the industrial age but instead seems as ancient as India itself. The roads and airports come and go, but nothing seems so indestructible as the railway.”
Describing his arrival in Lahore, the author notes: “There was evidence that some scattered showers of the monsoon had reached the outskirts of Lahore, now the capital of Punjab. It was cooler here and the rice fields had water in them; planting had begun; the grass was green. There had been no grass anywhere on the Frontier. Here the soil was mostly clay and so brickworks had sprung up, each one with a steeple-like chimney. Little girls, some looking as young as six or seven, were digging mud and clay out of pits for bricks and carrying it in baskets on their heads. In sharp contrast to this, little boys were playing gaily in the grass or else swimming in ditches. It is the absurd puritanism of the country that requires little girls modestly to remain clothed and do laborious work, while naked boys can frolic all the livelong day. Nearby Shadara Bagh there was luminous green slime on some pools and others were choked with water hyacinths, and there was a slum village of wickerwork houses next to the Ravi Bridge. The decrepitude was interesting because not far from Shadara Station is one of Pakistan's most glorious buildings, the Tomb of Jahangir, with its vast park — grander than the Shalimar Gardens — and the marble mausoleum inlaid with gems; all of it in a perfect state of preservation. It is one of the noblest Moghul structures, and not even Lahore Fort, or the immense and crumbling Anarkali Bazaar, or the Badshahi Mosque — largest in the world — can compare with its gentle beauty. Surrounded by palms, it lies outside Lahore, another marvel on the north-west railway.”
Reflecting on his journey from Lahore to India on the International Express, the author observes: “When India was partitioned in 1947, so was the railway, but the trains did not stop running until the 1965 Indo-Pakistani war. The tracks were not removed, and though there were no trains the steel rails still connected Wagha in Pakistan with Atari, the Indian border town. And then in 1976 the trains began to run again…This was the International Express…The train left on time, which surprised me, considering that the thousand or so people on board had all had their passports stamped and their luggage examined. We travelled across a plain towards India. After an hour, every man we passed had acquired a turban. We were nearing Amritsar, spiritual capital of the Sikhs, and we were among the great family of Singhs, with their strange light eyes and long hair…On the approaches to Amritsar, Sikhs herded goats, Sikhs dug in the fields, Sikhs processed the passengers on the International Express. This was Atari Station and the operation took several hours: everyone ordered off the train, everyone lined up and scrutinized, everyone ordered back on. Then the whistle blew and the black smoke darkened the sky, and we proceeded into India. But it was not only black smoke in the sky. The clouds were the color of cast iron; they were blue-black and huge. I had never in my life seen such ominous clouds…It was coming down so hard I had to shout to be heard at the Enquiry Window — I was making an onward reservation. No one left the station…I sat inside, deafened by the rain, and studied the Indian Railway Timetable, and after a while I became curious about the route of a certain train out of Amritsar. This particular mail train left Amritsar at ten in the evening and headed south of the main line to Delhi; but halfway there it made a hairpin turn at Ambala and raced north to Kalka where, at dawn, it connected with the railcar to Simla. It was an extraordinary route — and a very fast train: instead of going to bed in the hotel, I could reserve a sleeper, and board the train, and more or less wake up in the foothills of the Himalayas, in Simla.”
Describing his experience on Simla Mail, the author notes: “The train was fascinating but filthy. It is often the case in India. The sleeping compartment had not been swept; it was small, badly painted and dirty, with barred windows and a steel door. ‘Use the shutters,’ the ticket collector said, ‘and don't leave any small articles lying around.’ The whistle of the Simla Mail drowned the sounds of music from the bazaar and the howls of Sikh agitators who were attracting crowds just outside the station. It was 9.50 at night and I was soon asleep. But at midnight I was woken by rain beating against the shutters. The monsoon which had hit the Punjab only the day before had brought another storm, and the train struggled through it. The thick raindrops came down so hard they spattered through the slats and louvres in the shutters and a fine spray soaked the compartment floor. The Guard knocked on the door at Kalka at 5.20 to announce that we had arrived. It is the custom to tip the Guard, and so I did: ‘I have a tip for you. Keep your sleeping compartments clean and your passengers will be much happier.’ It was cool and green at Kalka, and after a shave in the Gentlemen's Waiting Room I was ready for the five-hour journey through the hills to Simla.”
Recalling his journey to Delhi from Simla, the author observes: “At their best the Indian trains are more than comfortable — they are actually cozy. I glided down from Simla in the little blue train to Kalka and then in the late evening boarded the sleeper for Delhi. It was air-conditioned, it was clean, and the bed was made — starched sheets and a soft pillow. There was no better way to Delhi. All night my dreams were full of the gentle rumble of the train crossing the province of Haryana, and at seven the next morning I looked out the window and saw the outskirts of Delhi, now grey and sodden in the rain.”
Explaining his experience in Delhi, the author notes: “It was in Delhi that I found the best organized railway station in India. This was Hazrat Nizamuddin Station, just south of the city and a short walk from Humayun's Tomb — which is reddish and swollen and was the prototype for the Taj Mahal. There were no cows, no rats, no three-legged dogs at Hazrat Nizamuddin Station; instead, there were flowers and shrubs in pots on the platform, and every day on the orders of the stationmaster, Mr G. L. Suri, ant powder was sprinkled along the walls. "See? No papers. No flies. Look at the Ladies' Waiting Room — look at the floors!" Mr Suri proudly took me on a tour of the station. He hadn't been recommended to me by the Railway Board — I had simply stopped on one of the one hundred and eighty trains that pass through each day and noticed how unusual it looked. "Look at my catering facilities —come into my kitchen.’ How was it possible to keep a station so clean in the hot season? Mr Suri said, ‘I do my duty — I get satisfaction from it. Sometimes I work sixteen hours a day. I do not accept excuses.’”
Reflecting on his passing through Agra, the author states: “Just after dark the lights in the train failed, and we travelled clattering through pitch-blackness, with the steam engine puffing and wheezing, and the whistle blowing off-key, and the only lights were the sparks from the smokestack, sailing past the window like fireflies. It was almost nine by the time we arrived in Agra. The town is nothing. The Agra Fort is substantial, Akbar's Mausoleum of Sikandra has character, and the Moti Masjid (the ‘Pearl Mosque’) has personality; but the Taj Mahal is something else. It hardly matters that it is so difficult to describe, because just looking at it you are certain that you will never forget it. It is not merely a visual experience, but an emotional one — its pure symmetry imparts such strong feeling; and it is a spiritual experience, too; for the Taj Mahal is alone among buildings I have seen. It is not merely lovely; it looks as if it has a soul.”
Describing his travel on the Ganga-Yamuna Express to Varanasi, the author observes: “The Ganga—Yamuna Express was any old train. Even First Class was dirty; there was no bedding; the fans were broken — and, when I left the shutters open for the breeze, hot cinders blew through the window and fouled the compartment. There was no food, no water; the seats were torn. It was like a certain kind of Asiatic prison cell. It was a long night. Dawn broke at Kanpur, and two hours later at Lucknow it was very sunny and bright, a noontime heat, though it was hardly half-past seven in the morning. After the village of Safdarganj there were great green fields — the meadowy illusion of rice growing in geometric pools of mud…Varanasi Station has the contours of a Hindu temple, built in the Mauryan style, and like a temple it is filled with holy men and pilgriMs It is also full of sacred cows. The cows at Varanasi station are wise to the place — they get water at the drinking fountains, food near the refreshment stalls, shelter along the platforms, and exercise beside the tracks; they also know how to use the cross-over bridges and can climb up and down the steepest stairs. ‘We are installing cow-catchers,’ the Station Superintendent told me — but he did not mean the traditional ones, on the engines, he meant fences to prevent the cows from entering the station. The flocks of goats at Varanasi Station are on their way to the Ganges to have their throats cut and be dumped into the river as a sacrifice; the beggars are testing the piety of the pilgrims…”
Reflecting on his journey from Varanasi to Calcutta, the author states: “From a distance in the early morning, Varanasi looks wonderful, and the most glorious sight of it is from the Howrah Mail as it crosses the Dufferin Bridge which spans the Ganges just east of the city…From here — the outskirts of Varanasi all the way to Calcutta — the land is waterlogged and fertile, an endless rice field. But this railway line crosses a number of great landmarks. A few hours after leaving Varanasi we were crossing the Son River on the fourth longest bridge in the world; and farther on, at Sasaram, you can look out of the window of the train and see the red stone mausoleum of Sher Shah, who ruled Delhi in the sixteenth century; and at noon the train stops at Gaya, where Buddha received enlightenment. Gaya also marks the beginning of a very strange landscape. Sudden single hills are thrust out of the flatness like massive dinosaurs petrified on the flat plain; and other hills are like pyramids, and still more like slag heaps. They stand alone, these odd shapes, and though at Gaya they have temples and ruins on their summits, farther on they are barren, with only a few trees or a small village at their base.”
Describing the state of Calcutta on his arrival, the author observes: “As the train drew into Howrah at seven o'clock the daylight was extinguished by smoke, and rain mixed with fog…Howrah is very large; but also like Calcutta it is in a state of decay. Enormous and noisy, a combination of grandeur and desolation, the wonder is that it still works. I am fascinated by Calcutta. It is one of the cities of the world that I associate with the future. This is how New York City could look, I think, after a terrible disaster — or simply in the fullness of time. The monsoon that beautifies and enriches the countryside had made Calcutta ugly and almost uninhabitable. Rain in India gives all buildings, especially modern ones, a peculiar look of senility.”
Before traveling to Chittagong, Bangladesh, from Calcutta, the author sums up his observations about India: “India is a vast and complex place. The phones seldom work, the mail is unreliable, the electricity is subject to sudden stoppages. There are numerous natural disasters and there are eight hundred million people. It seems almost inconceivable that this country is still viable, and yet there are times when one gets glimpses of its greatness. At first it is infuriating, but after a while, when one is better acquainted with its weaknesses, one marvels at the way it runs. Towards the end of my Indian journey I decided that India runs primarily because of the railway. It is an old-fashioned solution, but India has old-fashioned probleMs It is impossible to imagine India without the railway, or to think what could conceivably replace it.”
Reflecting on his journey on the Ulka Express to Chittagong, the author states: “This train was on the world news the day I took it: it was the only link between Dhaka and Chittagong — every other road was under five feet of water, and scores of people had drowned in the torrential rains…The Dhaka railway station, built after what Bangladeshis call Liberation, is big and airy and water stained like every other building in the country…In the morning, as the Ulka Express draws out, these scenes have a particular poignancy, with the people going through the motions of washing clothes, bathing, cooking, cleaning, brushing teeth — all in the filthiest water. Early morning in the tropical slum by the tracks reveals all its pathetic secrets…The Ulka Express, fifteen coaches long — one was First class — was pulled by a diesel engine. I would have gone Second but I would not have got a seat, and I was not prepared to stand for nine hours. At Fungi Junction I saw another train pull in…At 9.00 a.m, we came to Narsingdi Junction, and the train was besieged by beggars — many lame and blind, but many more in apparently good health as they demanded money. It is impossible to recall travelling in Bangladesh without hearing the incessant cry ‘Baksheesh!’ — ‘Boksis!’ in the local pronunciation…At Akhaura (change here for Sylhet) a man stood up to his waist in a flooded field serenely washing his cow, and farther on boats had penetrated to villages — the large boats were beamy, like old Portuguese frigates, and the smaller ones were gracefully shaped like Persian slippers. ‘You will see where President Zia was assassinated in Chittagong,’ Mr Shahid said as we rolled along. It was as if he was passing on a piece of tourist information. He did say that I should have taken the Karnafuli Express — it did not stop often and therefore there were fewer people clinging to its sides. At Comilla I met a young man who had just opened an office to encourage Bangladeshis to enroll in a Voluntary Sterilization program.”
To conclude his journey of The Imperial Way, the author notes: “Chittagong lay just ahead, simmering under the sun. It is not a prepossessing town. It is a rotting settlement on the estuary of the Karnafuli River — it is docks, moldy buildings, prowling seamen, blackened palm trees and storm-damaged roads. The airport had been closed for five days. It too was underwater. Even the people in Chittagong admit there is very little to see there. They say, ‘Go to Rangamati’ (colorful tribesmen), ‘See Karnafuli Reservoir’ (a big Take), or ‘Go to Cox's Bazaar’ (a seedy resort farther down the Bay of Bengal). I did not make any more plans. For me this was the end of the imperial way.”
The Imperial Way — By Rail from Peshawar to Chittagong by Steve Theroux and Steve McCurry is an interesting book that explains the past and present of Railways in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh viz a viz historical, cultural, economic and social contexts. It is a fun book for all readers to explore and enjoy!
(Dr Ahmed S. Khan - dr.a.s.khan@ieee.org - is a Fulbright Specialist Scholar, 2017-2022).
