Aboard the Kangra Seven-to-Seven

"I'll tell you a riddle. You're waiting for a train, a train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don't know for sure. But it doesn't matter. How can it not matter to you where that train will take you?"

Mal in Inception (2010)

The Dauladhar mountains, as seen from the Kangra Valley.

Little birds on the internet told me that one of the best ways to see the entire span of the Kangra Valley in a day is through a window of a train on the Kangra Rail. There are only two mountain lines which run in Himachal Pradesh: this and the Kalka-Shimla Toy Train - which I rode three years ago and declared to be the Best Train Ride Ever™. While the Kalka-Shimla Railway make a boast of its 864 bridges and 102 tunnels, the Kangra rail claims to be an entirely different marvel of architecture. Through the sage planning of its engineers, it deftly avoided most obstacles on its way. In its hundred miles, it only bores through the hills twice, allowing an almost ever-present, unimpeded view of snowy, glaciated peaks and golden-green fields as far as the eye can feast.

On a whim (of which I have many), I decided to ride it from end to end so I made my way from Bir to Joginder Nagar, a nowhere municipality of no particular note, and stayed a night there just so I could catch the early morning seven-twenty bound for Pathankot. As expected, Joginder Nagar features zero sightseeing value but by a freak stroke of fate, something actually interesting happened on the evening I rode into town - but that, my dear readers, is a story for another time.

Metaphorical mathematics states that a picture equals a thousand words, so I'll just shut up for a sec and let you see for yourself what I saw on my day-long train ride.

This picture was taken literally minutes after the train left Joginder Nagar.

No words I say can add anything to this.

I can, however, throw in a turbaned dude if you're into that sort of thing.

Ah, alpine mountains and snow-fed streams!

There's something warm, fuzzy and wholesome about richly golden wheatfields under a big blue sky.

Getting access to these stirringly beautiful countryside scenery is not without its sacrifices. While the initial stretch of tracks between Joginder Nagar and Baijnath Paprola gathers few travellers (so few that I could freely change seats from one side of the train to the other as I please), the majority of the subsequent leg of the ride came straight out of a National Geographic special where the immensity of India's fecund population introduces itself to me and packed my carriage far beyond the point of safe capacity. About half of the passengers on board was physically extruded outside the train through the doors and windows. The laws of Physics dictate that solid objects like human beings cannot occupy the same space at the same time are absolute and cannot be broken, but I can tell you that it's not for the lack of trying.

I shall show it to you through sepia-coloured glasses, if only to soften the deplorable violation of the human right to personal space you are about to witness with false nostalgia.

With sepia.

Without sepia.

For the blokes who were clinging precariously to the train's chassis like copepods do to the eyes of Greenland sharks, the ride must have been quite a thrill, particularly when the vehicular beast rumbles across chasms on skeleton bridges.

I'm just glad I didn't have to do this with my ten-kilogramme backpack strapped to me.

This guy was clinging to my window. Check out how far his ass is from the hard, unforgiving ground below.

Bridge over a mostly dry riverbed.

I remained seated by a window for the entire second half of the journey, but not by choice. I was boxed in and wedged in place by an Indian family comprising of four generations of women. For more than six hours, I could not get up to go to the loo or stand up to stretch my leg. There were times when I found myself chanting mentally, 'Stay sane, man, and keep it all together now,' over and over again like a madness mantra.

A plump Tibetan teenage girl seemed to have lost it, and started weeping piteously. I assumed that she was bemoaning the inhumane conditions she found herself trapped in, but I could be wrong. Considering how familiar I was with the Tibetan language (i.e. not even a little), she could very well be grieving her puppy which just got eaten by a wildcat earlier that morning. The trans-generational gaggle of ladies around me tried to do the motherly thing and comfort her, but she proved to be obstinately inconsolable.

With sepia.

Without sepia.

I seem to get stuck with little girls on trains more frequently than it is statistically probable. This kid couldn't speak any English at all so I amused myself by pretending that everything she said was a Hindi variant of 'Are we there yet?'

Alright, I admit that I didn't actually had as bad a time as I have led you to believe. It was a novel experience, and for me, that overrides any discomfort I have to endure to live it. Most of the passengers on my train were a fun lot. They whooped every time we cross a bridge, and those who hung out at of the doorways happily helped those trapped inside to refill water and buy snacks when we make stops at stations. In the two tunnels the locomotive wormed through, everyone just misplaced their excrement and howled wildly in unison as if we were on a roller-coaster. Little girls, grown men, and housewives; they were all doing it. It it was a strangely heartwarming slice of life and I am to have been there to see it.

Even so, I can't say I was feeling too sorry when the train pulled into Pathankot at half past six. Novelties do wear out after all.

A myna I saw at the Baijnath Paprola station.

It can also do this.

P.S. If you're going in an easterly direction, from Pathankot to Joginder Nagar, you should sit on the right side of the train in the first half of the journey. In the second half, the scenery is on the left side.

Sardined,

k0k s3n w4i