Kerala by Rail: The 88 Journal

This article, about a journey aboard the Kerala Express train in Southern India, featured in a print-only edition of Jamie Cullum’s The 88 Journal with images by John Hooper.

“Chai, Chai” call the black-shirted vendors, walking the length of the carriage. Stopping to serve their milky-sweet tea from a metal urn, poured out into paper cups. The logo on their shirts reads ‘Meals on Wheels’. Food is served from plastic crates carried on shoulders. An endless chain of provisions from tongue-tingling snacks to curries in cartons moves up and down the car.

We rumble along the serpentine track. This train is traversing the spine of Kerala, towards its northerly tip, Kasaragod. Doors are flung open, revealing a scenic slideshow of verdant palm forests and shimmering rivers. Fields are scattered with low-lying houses and sunbaked paths are the shade of terracotta pots. It’s May and the pre-monsoon air is humid and thick. 

The carriage interior is stark and dimly lit. Every inch coloured blue and grey, from the lino floors and painted walls to the plastic covered benches that fold down into beds. Small barred windows unveil glimpses of view. Whirring ceiling fans send cool air to meet grateful passengers, who sit or stretch out languidly. 

While the decor may be subdued, life in the carriage is the stuff of screenplays.   

A guard, suited up in a brass-buttoned jacket, stops at every seat. His clipboard is bursting with printouts listing every reservation. Frantically he searches names and numbers and checks each booking from hundreds of records. Even with planes, the railway remains the lifeblood of Indian travel. Its scale is unfathomable: 1.4 million employees, 11,000 trains operating on 71,000 miles of track and 18 million daily passengers using 7,500 stations. Families visit loved ones and workers make gruelling daily commutes. 

A couple and their teenage son in the opposite seats are travelling to Mumbai. Her turquoise sari is striking against the muted backdrop. She sits opposite her husband who looks sharp in a pinstripe shirt and trousers. Resting her foot on his thigh, he gently massages her dry, unvarnished toes. The boy stares in to his smartphone.

Small children clamber on the knees of their fathers or run down corridors, pacified by sips of water and sweets. Gaggles of women natter in huddles. Businessmen traditionally dressed in the lundi, a cotton sarong that falls to the ankles, do deals on mobiles. The bleeps chime out.  

Then, rain beats down and thunder grumbles like a scalding parent. The sky darkens and the windows blackout as evening sets in. Our destination is close. Though knowing when to exit is an adventure in itself. There are no announcements, or guards in sight. We’re armed only with the name of a station and the assistance of a friendly passenger who eventually says we’re at Nileswaram. The blinking lights of the station appear and the train trundles to a halt.