A RAILWAY MAN LOOKS BACK – PART I

By Noel P Thomas

In October ’62, batch mate Elston Fernandes and I were given a rousing send off at Jamalpur railway station by a noisy apprentice crowd. The main feature of these farewell ceremonies was the traditional toss up in the air three times to the accompaniment of loud cheers and “Hurrahs”, a spectacle enjoyed by everyone who happened to be on the platform at that time.

This was an annual event, senior apprentices leaving Jamalpur at the end of the honeymoon period, to enter a new responsible phase of life. Elston and I were posted as chargemen in the Diesel Loco Shed at Gaya.

With hearts too full for words, we sat silently in the Jamalpur–Gaya passenger train for sometime, then prepared to bunk it out for the night. Just before we stretched out, a policeman travelling along with us, warned all the passengers to be careful of their belongings. “This line is notorious for thefts,” he said. “They don’t even spare your chappals.”

We awoke next morning to the sound of the policeman shouting and swearing in the choicest Hindi invective. His footwear (boots and stockings) were missing – only his!

Gaya, where Gautham Buddha found enlightenment, was in Dinapore Division in the Grand Chord section of the Eastern Railway. Elston and I were given a room in the Diesel Training School (once the European Institute), on Hindley Road. The shed at Gaya was the first broad gauge main line diesel shed in the Indian Railways, set up in 1957.

The Diesel Training School offered conversion courses, from steam to diesel, for drivers and technicians of all railway zones. Many Anglo-Indians from the South were trained there… Arthur Morgan of Bitragunta, Reggie “Killer” Francis from Vijayawada, Haido Morris from Mysore, Austin Nicholas from Gooty and others were trained along with me. The chief instructor was Bertie Pelegrim, who was an expert in diesel locomotion. Originally from Bangalore, he had a lovely voice. We used to encore his old time rendition of some old-time favourites like “Till…” and “Begin the Beguine”.

Across the road from the training school were the traffic quarters, where some guards by the name of Remedios, Starling, Jacobs, Peterson and a ticket examiner, “Jumbo” Rozario stayed.

Gaya had an extreme climate. The summer was intolerable with the hot wind (Lew) blowing across the plains. The locals used to stare at me as I walked in the midday sun to and from duty, normally dressed. I thought it was they who looked funny, covered from head to toe in the scorching heat. Only when I heard comments like “Beta Mur Jayega” (You’ll die Sonny) that I began to worry.

I was walking back to my “digs” one hot afternoon, passing the quarters of the American Service Engineers (we had purchased locomotives from America) when one of them, Clements, called out to me, “Hey, Noel, come and have a drink!” He must be crazy or joking, I thought; but stepping in, I found Clements and his buddies with a big jar of juice on the center table, from which they were filling up their glasses, sipping and enjoying the drink. He offered me a glass; I found it delicious, but soon realized that my American friends were having a refined version of our own Anglo-Indian mango fool, an effective antidote and preventive for sunstroke. I started taking it myself and it helped me survive the hot summer months.

By this time, my younger brother Eustace had joined the Eastern Railways as an APWI in the same Grand Chord section. He used to trolley and camp frequently overnight in the ghat section of the Grand Chord, a stretch of 22 kms from Gujhandi to Gurpa, with an awe-inspiring, 1-in-80 gradient, 3 long tunnels, 4 major bridges, 17 steep curves, high rocky cuttings and dense forest. Eustace recalls trying to sleep in a tent at night while the gangmen kept a fire burning continuously to discourage visits from the denizens of the jungle. At times, they heard the roar of the big cat, the grunt of the wild boar and the thud of the tipsy black bear, falling from the mahua tree after feasting on the intoxicating fruit. Watching the bear’s antics, the Santhals got wise, resulting in the birth of a new indigenous brew called “mahua”.

Eustace remembers an incident while travelling in the ghat section. In his words, “In August 1971, as APWI Gomoh, I was foot-plating by engine cab of the Pathankot Express between Gomoh and Gaya. The driver was Frankie Joseph of Gomoh, a genial soul who kept chatting with me while driving. As the train passed Gujhandi and entered the Ghat Section, Frankie’s chatter ceased abruptly. It was a different Frankie Joseph I saw now. He stood motionless, eyes fixed ahead and just before we entered the first tunnel, he began to sing, ‘Nearer my God to Thee’. He kept singing this hymn till we came out of the third tunnel and cleared the ghat section. Then Frankie started talking again, but mostly about various hazards like landslides, falling trees, overhead cables and rail fractures. While trolleying on the section, I came across the words, ‘Jesus Saves’ engraved on one of the milestones.”

Frankie Joseph is no more. His son, Freddie works in the commercial department of the divisional office at Dhanbad. Eustace retired as Divisional Engineer, Dhanbad, and has settled there.

Interestingly, the very first Rajdhani Express of the Indian Railways between Calcutta and Delhi, travelled over the Grand Chord route. Craker and Toker, both Anglo-Indians were the first to drive the train on its inaugural run in 1969.

After electrification of the Grand Chord, the diesel shed at Gaya shifted to Patratu in March ’64. Patratu was located in the Central India Coalfield (CIC) section of the Eastern Railway, in Hazaribagh district of Bihar, close to Ranchi. Four stations up the line was McCluskieganj, then known as the El Dorado of the Anglo-Indians.

McCluskieganj was an hour away by train. I had been there several times with loco inspectors Willie Young, Noel Ramsbotham, and Ronnie Miller. We met old residents like the Thipthorpes. Mrs. Thipthorpe was famous for her preserves, jams and pickles. There were beautiful houses on both sides of the tracks. One was called the “Doll’s House”; it is said that a father built this house for his little daughter, making it an exact replica of her favourite toy. Some say the daughter herself recreated the toy she loved. It was the prettiest building in the Ganj.

One day, I went alone, stayed at the guest-house and had a long chat with Bill Kearney, who with his wife, was running the guest house. They were among the first settlers. Bill was well-built, with striking blue eyes, now bereft of sight, but which seemed to light up when he narrated tales of the Ganj. I wish I had taken down even half of what he had said. He was a retired railway officer from pre-Independence days.

In the early ’50s, the General Manager of the Eastern Railway was inspecting the CIC section. The GM’s special was scheduled to run through McCluskieganj, (it was only a flag station of no commercial importance at that point in time), enroute to Khelari, further down the line, to hold a meeting with officials of the Associated Cement Company over there. As the train approached McCluskieganj, the driver of the Special was surprised to hear the GM’s voice on the intercom asking him to stop at McCluskieganj. So, he stopped. The GM, K G Mukherjee, better known as “King George” Mukherjee because of his regal bearing and anglicized manners, jumped down on to the low platform and made for the station building, with his shocked entourage following him. Suddenly, he changed direction and went straight to the railway tea stall. Mrs. Kearney was pouring tea into khullars (earthen cups), lined in a row when someone whispered, “GM Sahib.” She looked up to see an immaculately dressed GM, who wished her the time of the day and asked, “How is Bill keeping?”

“Quite well Sir,” replied Mrs. Kearney.

“Where is he now?” asked the GM.

“In the guest house Sir,” replied the lady.

The GM paused in contemplation. Then, his secretary discreetly reminded him that they were running behind schedule and it wouldn’t be nice to keep the ACC officials, important railway users, waiting.

“Give my regards to Bill,” the GM said, turned around and walked majestically back to his salon. Signals were exchanged, a whistle blew and the GM’s Special chugged out of McCluskieganj. It is said the GM was in good spirits that day. Bill Kearney was his mentor when “KG” joined as a young probationer officer. Mrs. Kearney ran the tea stall for many years, even after Bill had passed. She offered the passengers not only a cup of good tea, but home baked bread and biscuits too.

Patratu was a beautiful, but backward place. The diesel railway quarters was a virgin colony, infested with scorpions and snakes. I was called by the doctor to his quarters one night. There I saw one of my colleagues, Venu, who was bitten by a krait. The doctor had only tied a torniquet. I asked him whether he had the anti-venom serum. He took me aside and confessed his inexperience. He had the serum but was not sure how to administer it. I called for the jeep and brought the more experienced Dr. Bose from the steam loco colony. He gave Venu two injections, anti-venin and anti-tetanus. We propped him up on an easy chair. The doctor advised us to keep him awake.

Meanwhile, the news had spread. A noisy bhajan party arrived from the Basti close to the shed. The leader claimed to know powerful mantras, which would nullify the effect of the poison. They wanted Venu to sit on the ground in their midst, while they performed the rituals. I didn’t agree to this proposal and a fierce argument ensued. The leader accused me of obstructing a certain cure and warned me that I would be responsible if Venu didn’t survive. I was unfazed and the stalemate continued. Suddenly, it dawned on me that Venu being an orthodox Brahmin, the mantras and rituals could have a soothing, psychological effect and keep him awake, as the doctors ordered. I told the leader of the group, “We will shift his chair in the position you want. Go ahead with your mantras, but don’t touch him and don’t give him anything to eat or drink.” He was looking to save face and so readily agreed. The chanting carried on through out the night into the wee hours. Venu twice complained of severe headache and nausea, but by daybreak he said he was feeling better. The doctors examined him and declared him out of danger. Needless to add, the bhajan party took full credit for the cure!

Patratu was lacking in civic and other amenities – no school, public transport, inadequate marketing and recreational facilities. Though fairly well-placed, I couldn’t keep my mother with me – she needed good medical attention, which was non-existent.

In 1971, I met and married Sheila Bertram at Khurda Road. By 1977, we were blessed with three beautiful girls. Bihar was not the ideal place to bring up children. A short stint at Jamalpur on deputatation convinced me of this. I saw how Jamalpur, once a model, very livable railway town, had changed for the worse. Lawlessness and crime were rampant. Kidnapping, dacoities and murders were taking place within the railway premises. It was time to leave.

– to be continued –

A Railway Man Looks Back - II

By Noel P. Thomas

In August ’78, by an inter-zonal transfer, I was posted as Senior Chargeman (Junior Engineer) in the Diesel Shed at Waltair/Vizag, which homed 200 locomotives and was one of the busiest sheds in the Indian Railways.

By opting for this transfer, I forfeited ten years of seniority. Prophets of doom predicted a bleak future for me, career-wise. However, the domestic scene was rosier with our three girls excelling in studies and Sheila getting on as a librarian in the school they studied at.

At Vizag, there were not many Anglo-Indian railway employees — only a few drivers, fitters and cleaners, and a train guard or two. The rest were employed in the Port, the Shipyard, the Refinery, other public sector/semi-public sector organisations and the Merchant Navy.

I was the only Anglo-Indian supervisor in a group of 50 or more, but my “Anglo-Indianness” was never a liability. I was singled out for special assignments and commended several times for meritorious service.

In 1990, I was selected as Assistant Mechanical Engineer (AME) in an Open Selection on Merit Basis — a quantum career jump, a double promotion. I was posted at Bondamunda (not a bad word – literally it means “small boy’s head”) a large railway complex next to Rourkela Steel City. Thus, in about, twelve years, I had regained all the seniority I had lost initially.

My divisional headquarters was Chakradarpur (CKP), a one time Anglo-Indian bastion. I had heard a lot about CKP in my boyhood — tales of guts and glory, fun and frolic, of Anglo-Indian heroes like driver Percy Caroll, and famous sportsmen — Olympian hurdler Bunoo Sutton, boxers Melville Hastings, Dougie Fernandez, Ronnie Sampayo, the Smith brothers Melvin and Owen, Philip Bibee and many others.

The CKP I visited in 1991 was a ghost town. There was a fete in the Church that Sunday. All the stalls were run by Adivasis and all the announcements were in Hindi. I came across only one Anglo-Indian, Mr. Bannister, a retired Inspector.

Cyril Pereira, now a sprightly 94-year-old, and the oldest Anglo-Indian in Vizag, joined the Vizag Port Railways (affiliated to the B.N.R.) as a gate clerk in 1934, on a salary of Rs. 35 per month; he retired as Assistant Operating Superintendent, Waltair, Vizag in 1970. He was posted at CKP as Section Controller from 1937 to 1946. He still remembers those halcyon days when the Anglo-Indians ruled the roost in this tiny railway town located in the tribal belt of Bihar. The majority of them left in the ’50s. Today, there’s no one left to tell the tale…

Let’s move on to the brighter side of railway life. “What’s in a name?” asked the Bard of Avon, much ahead of his time, of course. It was a typist’s error, not a magic wand, that transformed my double-Irish AI friend Malcolm J. Murphy (his mother was a Magee) into an orthodox South Indian Brahmin.

At Madras Central, Malcolm saw his name written as M.J. Murthy and with his persuasive use of Tamlish (Tamil + English) got the reservation clerk to rewrite it correctly as M.J. Murphy. All over and done with? Not quite! There was a change of shift, change of staff – another clerk came, looked at the chart. “What is this–Moorf, Moorfy?” he asked, and with a few deft strokes of his pen, restored the status quo ante. Malcolm, a good writer and full of wit himself, saw the funny side of it and decided to leave bad enough alone.

Sometimes a name is misunderstood and becomes the bone of contention. In the early fifties, a young officer walked up to the locomotive of the Calcutta-bound Mail at Vizag station and asked the driver: “Who’s the guard of the train?”

“Driver, Sir,” replied the Anglo-Indian driver.

“Yes, I know, but who’s the guard?”

“I told you, Driver, Sir,” said the grizzled veteran, obviously enjoying the greenhorn’s discomfiture.

The officer was annoyed and a hot exchange followed, terminated by the timely intervention of the Station Master who told the young executive: “Mr. Driver is the guard of the train.”

Mr. Driver’s son, Jimmy was my senior in Vizag high school.

Anglo-Indian railwaymen were invariably jolly, fun-loving and humorous. Their cheerful outlook, even under pressure, took much of the drabness and drudgery out of railway work.

A PWI told me how once an Anglo-Indian driver’s sense of humour bailed him out of a serious situation.

The PWI was foot-plating with his boss, the Sr. Divisional Engineer (Track) on a bad stretch of track. There was a lot of bouncing, lurching, swaying — heavy oscillation. The Sr. Engineer was furiously chastising the PWI for the poor track condition. At the first stop, he asked the driver, “How do you feel driving on a track like this?”

“Shake, rattle and roll, Sir!” replied the Anglo-Indian driver, Edgar Benjamin. The officer’s anger turned to laughter — a volatile situation was defused and the PWI was lucky to get off with a warning.

Anglo-Indian drivers were noted for maintaining punctuality, and making up time, without compromising on safety.

I was traveling by an express train to Vizag. The train had lost an hour or so at Kharagpur. A co-passenger had to catch a connecting flight at Vizag. I heard him anxiously ask the conductor if there was any chance of the train reaching Vizag on time.

The conductor was pessimistic, saying that drivers are wary of making up time since their “running” was under the scrutiny of speed recorders, tachopaph charts, and other gadgets. Finally we arrived at Vizag. The passenger looked at his watch and exclaimed excitedly: “The train was on time, after all!”

“Yes, Sir,” said the conductor. “The driver ran very well and made up for the lost time.”

“He must be an Anglo-Indian!” said the passenger as he moved out of the compartment.

Anglo-Indian railway family members, wives, sons and daughters too, were familiar with railway terms, railway jargon, and some technical aspects as well; perhaps some had railway skills in their genes! Works Manager, Kharagpur, Arthur Mitchell’s favourite chastisement of slip-shod work was: “My daughter could do better than that!”

Family members were inclined to use their “railway knowledge” to rise to the occasion — at times a little too high!

Mr. “M” was the Engineer-in-charge of the new diesel shed at Kharagpur. There were so many teething problems that he opted to live in the shed with his wife.

A major problem was the failure of turbochargers. Mrs. M often overheard her husband listening to the shed supervisor’s report of “thick black exhaust, charge air pressure dropping, loco unable to haul the train” — typical symptoms of a turbocharger failure.

Mr. M came to the room late one afternoon, thoroughly exhausted, had his lunch, then told his wife, “I’m very tired, I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me unless it’s really important.”

Half an hour later the phone rang. It was the shed supervisor. A locomotive had come dead after failure. He wanted advice from the ‘Sahib’.

“Hold on!” said Mrs. M. She checked on her husband who was in deep sleep. She lifted the phone and said, “Sahib wants to know what the driver reported.”

“Thick black exhaust, charge air pressure zero, loco unable to haul the train,” said the shed supervisor.

“Hold on!” said Mrs. M. She had heard all this before, knew it by heart. Pausing for a couple of minutes, she lifted the phone once more and told the supervisor, “Sahib bola, turbo change karo!” (Sahib said to change the turbocharger). She told Mr. M when he awoke hours later. “You should have woken me up,” he said, “but you could be right.” As things turned out, she was right!

It is generally believed that railway workers in the South are more disciplined and therefore, easier to manage than their northern brethren. The northern workforce is certainly more vocal, demonstrative and belligerent at times. However the southern mazdoors have their own novel, non-violent but effective “Gandhian” methods of stating their case and getting their grievance redressed.

In a division of the Southern Railway, an administrative lapse resulted in the station staff receiving only one half of their new uniforms — the top half which was a white bush coat. The bottom half, white trousers, were not supplied. The local administration was indifferent to the complaints and bluntly told the staff to wear their new bush coats over the old trousers. The staff union declared a deadline — the management remained unconcerned, till one morning the railway officers and passengers were shocked to see the station staff turned out for duty in new, starched bush coats worn over their underwear. Need I say that the trousers were supplied expeditiously, on top priority.

In the last phase of my service, I was witness to a sad but historic event — the eclipse of the good old steam locomotive. Today the steam locomotive is as dead as the dodo, but those hoary tales of guts and gore will become the stuff of ballad and legend.

Not for nothing was the steam loco called the Iron Horse. With his peak cap, half sitting, half leaning forward on the back-box, the driver was more like a jockey riding a horse, stroking its flanks and spurring it on to greater achievement. The admission and expansion of steam was controlled by positioning the lever in the driver’s cab. This was connected to the valve gear and operated through a long rod aptly called the “bridle” rod. One of the motion parts was called the “stirrup” link.

It would be extremely unfair to compare the ancient steam locomotive with the latest state of the art, console operated, eco-friendly diesel and electric locomotives.

However, unlike the robust steam locomotive, the diesel and electric locos are so sophisticated that they have a certain “touch-me-not” quality which restricts the driver’s trouble-shooting role.

Errol Peters, retired Loco Foreman of Mughalsarai, easily the biggest railway yard, related this incident to me:

While approaching Jhahjha, the end of its run, the WP locomotive hauling the Toofan Express started losing steam. There was a heavy steam blow and link motion parts on one side of the loco started falling off, one by one. The Anglo-Indian driver carried on working, confident that with one side working satisfactorily, he could roll into Jhahjha station, where the locomotive would be changed as per link.

The train was entering the station limits when a passenger in the first bogie, alarmed at the heavy leakage of steam and the sound of falling motion parts, pulled the alarm chain. The train came to a stop and couldn’t be started again.

The driver was furious. He got down from the locomotive, walked up to the first bogie, noted the name of the passenger who pulled the chain and told him, “You are responsible for the failure!”

It used to puzzle me why this macho machine, the dark handsome Iron Horse, was always spoken of in the feminine gender: “She runs well, she’s a beauty!” Was it because of the “petticoat”, an engine part in the smoke-box, so named because of its shape? There was nothing feminine about it.

Compared to the sleek, streamlined, garishly painted, “sexed up” effeminate looking diesel and electric locomotives, the steam locomotive was masculine to the core. Why then was it called “she”?

The question was debated a long time ago, in those railway running-rooms by drivers who put their feet up, relaxing after a long grueling trip, and thinking about their wives and children, many miles away.

So, why was the steam locomotive called “she”? I’m sure the old steam hands, even the steam wives and daughters, will appreciate the answer and explain it to the “unitiated”: “Because she has a tender behind!”

/-------------------------------------\

Noel P. Thomas joined the Railways as an Apprentice in 1957 and worked in two railway zones, the Eastern and the South Eastern, covering railway divisions such as Dinapore, Dhanbad, Chakradharpur and Waltair/Vizag as Chargeman, Foreman, Assistant and Divisional Mechanical Engineer. During this period, he also interacted with railway men of other sheds, workshops and railway establishments in various railway zones. He retired as DME/ Waltair/Vizag in July 1999, after forty two years of service. Noel and his wife Sheila live in Vizag and can be contacted by e-mail: noelpthomas @yahoo.com / Phone: 0 98663 06603.