Dammit they don't use flags anymore

(Written for Outlook Traveller. I know, it's cheating to post it here. Especially when it's so long. But hey. New thought must accompany new look)

It's the first thing I get wrong. Looking for one man. The board does say The Station Master, but that must've been nine platforms, 221 trains, and a century ago. These days, The Station Master at the bustling Chennai Central is actually a team of white uniformed, slightly rounded, intensely dutiful men. Three men, as one force, making sure we have enough time to cry our goodbyes, to give strict instructions about the milk in the fridge, to make a dash for a last minute bottle of water even as terrified moms snap at us to "GET BACK in the train".

The second bit of idiocy has something to do with the blazing warning the Railway higher-ups reserve for those eager to meet the railway staff. I'm scolded stiffly that my request to just observe the men at work will create a definite situation of imminent danger. Did I really want to be responsible for the sacking of the stationmaster, and worse, the deaths of a train full of people?! Did I not care at all for an inconvenience (me) free environment?

After signing something of a mea culpa, I set off grimly to the stationmasters' office. Karunakara Reddy nods me in, while Rajasekaran tries to look concerned about some article on rice politics in Tamil Nadu. Reddy is pleased that there are still people who want to "study" the work of stationmasters. "There are ladies like you in our trade, you know. But after one month as stationmas… err, mistress, they don't want to do standing work. They ask for a transfer and go sit in the office." This topic interests Rajasekaran and he speaks as if reading from the newspaper: "Sometimes I don't know what to think of woman power." Reddy laughs and elaborates the tiffs his friend has with his ambitious daughter. "Rajasekar has one plus, one minus, you see. One son, one daughter. Both want to work. My friend wants his daughter to be a housewife. He is an old fashioned man, you see. My wife, she is employed."

There is love light in his eyes, but without a word of consultation Reddy and Rajasekaran suddenly get up in unison and leave the room. The digital clock on the wall has blinked the call of duty. Train departure at 9 o'clock. On the way to Platform 6, voices in Hindi, German, English, and barely-there Tamil plead train numbers coaches, and ticket rates. Reddy has an answer for everyone, an encouraging nod nudging them ahead, partly so they find their way, and partly so they get out of his. "I know railway related lines in eight languages!"

Rajasekaran gets into a heated argument with the Freight Loading In-charge. "See the spring under the coach! It's jammed! The train cannot carry this much weight! Why don't you listen?!" His fists thump the side of the crates violently. Just then a confused family stumbles to him asking in Hindi for Coromandel Express. He's suddenly a soft mass of goodness. "This only, sir, this is your train. Get into the unreserved bogie. Be careful with your little girl." Beads of sweat escape from his nose tip onto a train of wetness on the front of his white shirt.

Reddy has meanwhile sorted the overloading issue with special negotiations. He points to the confused family and little girl getting on an already overflowing coach. "72 people in one coach are allowed. But see these faces peeping out." Faces peep out.
"Must be 150 per bogie. Mostly in northward bound trains." Rajasekaran joins in. His theory is that it's the north Indians who make travelling such a nightmare. "They carry trunks! Even ten-inched kids carry trunks!" He has a thing or two to say about the "arrogant army fellows" too and where he'd like them to shove their trunks.

A reverent worker from the Pantry Car informs Rajasekaran that there's no water on board. Five minutes later, private supply has been arranged. Is that ok in a government-run monopoly, I ask, obviously a fool to have. "Solutions. Quick solutions and good water. That's what people want," Rajasekaran says. Apparently, people bear the toilet stink and sometimes acrid train food because deep in their heart they know "no other country will allow hanging from a train like this." "Passenger oriented railways… new meaning, no?" laughs Reddy.

Somewhere along the 155 years of Southern Railways, the stationmaster has become an oracle, a voice of good sense. A voice with an answer to any existential dilemma in all that mad chugging of wheels. Reddy and Rajasekaran agree that to the passenger, they're the front office guys. Probably thanks to the Southern Railway mascot, an exceedingly friendly looking elephant with blue tie and a trunk-held lamp. Rajasekaran chuckles about how he is the living mascot sans the friendly face. "I keep a scowling face when I'm bored of answering stupid questions."

But the real responsibility takes more than a friendly face.

And that's where Balasubramaniam, the third man, (no, he wasn't forgotten) comes in. Not friendly, not ready to answer questions, not wearing his uniform. "Who's going to see?" Far away from the passengers, his world is up in the second floor Cabin, amidst the buttons and knobs and brakes. And the constant ringing of the eight phones. At one point, he was "calling driver of Jaipur train" on the microphone, with three phones tucked under his jaw, filling in complicated numbers of arrival and departure in a record. The driver of Jaipur train was not responding. And the train was rolling towards a platform that already had an engine stalled. But Balasubramaniam was still on the phone. "Even if he wants to bang the train into another train, my braking machine won't let it happen," he says, proudly turning a knob and smiling for the first time, "Of course, if upstairs authority says to crash Jaipur train into Howrah train, then it can happen." Whoa. Railway higher-ups? "No, no, God."

As he sits among his phones and knobs, Reddy and Rajasekaran, at work near the Guard's coach, find out that a split in a weak rail-line last month has got only Reddy blackmarked. Rajasekaran says guiltily that he has been let off because of his familiarity with the top boss. They both smile sadly at each other.

They're a team that has been together for over 25 years. Seeing trains grow longer, bogies getting fuller, and private advertisements in the station get louder. And as their senior officials go to collect their awards in the Railway Week celebration, the Station Master, all three of them, turn back to mark the arrival of the next train. 'On time'.