The LONG night train to Varanasi

I continued to gaze out the dirty window. My viewed impeded by condensation but as the train gathered speed the fog cleared bringing unfamiliar scenery into focus. I had no idea why the train was mostly empty but I was grateful to have some personal space, a commodity we in the West take for granted. I took my new cell phone out of my pocket and stared at it as I calculated the time difference, which deduced that those I might want to call were most likely fast asleep in the middle of their night. The excitement of this new experience was still serving as adrenaline yet I could feel a wave of exhaustion settling in after completing the dash from new to old Delhi train stations.

The train rocking side to side was an invitation to drift into my memory remembering the many train journeys I’ve taken over the coarse of my life. The film in my mind went back as far as the trains I took in Germany as a toddler and a pre-teen, as well as those in England as a young adult, which I anticipated with great joy, even more than the most popular Disneyland ride. I’m certain this nineteen-hour night-train will undoubtedly play a vital role in this half-century spiritual quest. But another more recent railed journey, which also left a modern city center to journey to a more historical one, is begging for reminiscent review.

Only four short weeks ago I boarded a shiny fresh coach at Victoria Station to travel to the coastal white-cliffs town of Ramsgate where my grandparents spent the last chapters of their simple but precious lives. When I arrived in London I had no intention, not even an inkling to go to Ramsgate. I purposely chose London because it’s familiar to me and would serve to break the jet lag brought on by traveling halfway across the world. Also, I was a bit concern that I might not get another opportunity to visit this ancient land from which a precious part of my heritage originates.

I stepped into the pristine railcar and went straight for the four-top or cluster of four seats with a table in the middle that would serve as my lunch table and desk to write during the two-and-half-hour journey. The train hummed as it built up speed as if to say, braggingly, that it was new. Only half a dozen passengers shared this car with me. Shortly after leaving the station I saw the refreshment cart being pushed through the automatic doors between the cars. The trolley attendant, a round cheerful lady in her early sixties, gray wavy hair wearing a deep-blue apron to match the décor, stopped next to me and asked, “Anything from the trolley Love?” I laughed to myself remembering that Harry Potter was asked the same thing on his first train journey to Hogwarts. Seated across from Ron and he replied, “We’ll take the lot!” meaning every sweet on the cart. Still laughing, I replied, “I’ll just have tea, please.” She put a triangle-shaped tea bag in a PG Tips recyclable paper cup and filled it with piping hot water. I have been familiar with PG Tips tea all my conscious life thanks to a British mum who taught me how to properly brew a good cup of tea. A function she might have learned from her Irish father who had traveled to India several decades before me. This was another of the sentimental memory clues that continually and superbly appear along the journey of my life as if God herself is placing them before me to remind me of my connection with those I love. She stopped pouring to ask, “You take milk in your tea Love?” “Yes, thank you.” I replied. My mum has always called people “Love,” it’s an English thing I surmise, as well as another memory clue. It’s at these times that I miss my mum the most as she’s my favorite person to create new memories with. She and I have had great times reminiscing the joys, beauties and comedic mishaps of our adventures together. I’m sure it’s from her that I get my child-like wonderment about the world and the adventures of living. It’s her that I think of when I see beauty in life, like a rainbow, because with her it’s never ‘just another rainbow’, it’s that particular rainbow as if there has been no other before it and no other like will come again. I enjoyed the tea with my sack-lunch of chicken watercress sandwich and salt & vinegar crisps that I purchased the day before.

I finished my lunch and opened my laptop to write and at the same time I felt myself being swept away by the romance of the moment, the train rolling smoothly over the tracks, the sun of the new day shining softly into the window across the isle and the satisfaction of having everything I need to let the words flow from my heart, down my arms and off my fingers tips onto to keyboard. At times the words would hide from me and to find them I only had to look out at the cottages, gardens and green pastures gently sloping past the window and there arranged among the scenery was the perfect phrase.

Two hours passed quickly and we would soon reach Ramsgate. I tucked my tools away and gave my attention to the passing stations, some the train would stop and others it would merely stroll through. I began to get a sense of how close we were to the little costal town that holds so many ethereal memories stored deeply in my heart. It’s been nearly two decade since I’ve visited this seacoast town and I’m secretly hoping that I’ve traveled far enough down these tracks, laid so long ago, to make the world stand still and if not still, somehow untouched like passing through C.S. Lewis’ wardrobe.

I knew we were close as we passed through the small town of Broadstairs, where my sister was born more than half a century ago. Just then a disembodied voice over the PA system echoed, “Next station, Ramsgate.” The rolling became a soft rock as the train slowed to the last stop. I felt the butterflies begin to swirl. I ask myself, “Why are you anxious?” I waited but no answer came.

The sun is deceivingly bright and to naïve travelers would give the impression that it was warmer here than in London. I remembered that a winter Ramsgate breeze isn’t all that kind to exposed skin; I dug into my pocket for my gloves. I stood at the automated doors as the train came to a full stop. I pressed the release and the shiny stainless doors disappeared into the walls of the train.