The Train Travel Travails

The Daily Journey

For quite a few of us in the Three Hundred Batch, traveling by train from the Lunawa station to Bambalapitiya was the usual mode of conveyance to the Medical College. Although the journey was only about ten miles or so, it was rather tedious, but never short of interesting incidents. Apart from us, the other commuters included office workers, school children, and an assortment of other nomads.

The Boarding Struggle

As one’s anticipated train was spotted afar, all camaraderie that usually existed among the passengers on the platform who were scheduled for boarding, faded away. It was replaced not with hostility but by a veritable scuffle and grapple. This was because the simple act of climbing onto the train compartment was not at all an easy task. In the process, one encountered considerable competition from several others with the same intention, approaching the limited space of the open door from all directions.

If the adversity of climbing onto the train wasn’t enough by itself, we medical students had an extra burden to bear. Those were days when even “backpackers” didn’t carry backpacks, so common even among the smallest of school children today. The heavy books, including those borrowed from the library that had to be returned in time to avoid paying a fine, had to be held in just one hand. The other was required for employment elsewhere to maintain stability once inside the train. Additionally, we had to take the largish boxes of dissecting instruments and bones, and carry them in the only locus available, our pockets.

Squeezing In

Ours was similar to the predicament that a surgeon sometimes finds himself in during a laparotomy, while attempting to get the final loops of distended bowel into the peritoneal cavity. He, however, can take his time doing his thing as long as the anaesthetist is kept amused. The train commuters had no such leverage, as entry had to be effected in the limited period before the station master blew the whistle for take off.

Some passengers boarding the train had the advantage of sharing with unicellular creatures such as the Amoeba histolytica, the ability to alter their shape and contort their limbs to fit into the small spaces between other struggling passengers, and make their entrance. Some others achieved the same outcome by imitating the gliding movements of Plasmodium falciparum, simply easing through the battling throng. But as sure as the struggling surgeon always got the bowel loops in, all those clamoring to get into the train too ultimately succeeded, using the technique of their choice.

Standing Room Only

Any reader who thought the drudgery of train travel ended there, would have been sorely mistaken. The previously mentioned loops of bowel, having been squeezed through the laparotomy incision, might well have felt deep satisfaction on reaching the wide expanse of the peritoneal cavity, now free to roam and resume peristalsis. Not so the horde of passengers who were compared to those very loops. Even once inside, they had to find a spot amid those already packed like tinned sardines.

Those not familiar with travelling by train during the morning rush hours may be wondering why I describe this practice as so harrowing: and they have every reason to demand an explanation. You see, the train we were to board at Lunawa usually set off from Alutgama or even further away in Galle, and travelled semi-express to Colombo Fort. On its way to Lunawa, it stopped at a few stations where office workers, school children, fish-mongers, vegetable sellers, and other assorted types had already occupied all the seats. Beggars and the many sellers of sundry items walking along the corridors had taken up most of the remaining standing space. We thought they should have known better than to inconvenience medical students,  the future healers of the country, and assumed they would travel at a less busy time. As a result, the space left for those of us boarding at Lunawa was extremely limited.

Bodies in Close Quarters

One cannot cease to be amazed at the way the human body, whatever its size and shape, adjusts its contours to fit into any available space. There’s no other way to explain how entire extended families can squeeze into the confines of a trishaw for long journeys, only to alight as happily as upper-end tourists disembarking from a luxury liner. This same characteristic helped the train travelers boarding at Lunawa gain whatever territory they could in the carriage, even when it was packed far beyond the number intended by the manufacturers.

Once inside, the initial euphoria of finally being en route was short-lived, as new factors added to our discomfiture. The flexibility and mobility of the body parts that had helped us board now seemed to work against us, creating further impediments. The unenlightened should know that when standing in a moving train, one grabs whatever is within one’s reach to steady oneself. Cords meant for that purpose hung from a beam running the length of the third-class compartments, our preferred, cheapest carriage. These cords had seen better days: the wooden rings at their ends had long disintegrated, replaced by thin air. Even the cords themselves had atrophied, and what short lengths remained could be reached only by the tall. For most passengers, the cords were merely swinging in sympathy with the train’s sway, out of reach for the vertically challenged. The only alternative was to clutch anything around for support. Unknown hands grabbed unknown shoulders; those unable to reach shoulders grabbed torsos. Arms were everywhere, their owners unidentifiable, heads locked into position by forearms traversing under chins, preventing any cervical movement.

A Middle-Aged Lady Meets a Bone

An inordinate number of people confined to a limited space, standing at different angles to each other, inevitably brought their bodies into contact at various anatomical sites. In most instances, it was possible to perceive which part of another’s body was brushing against one’s own, and dismiss it as inconsequential. Yet when something persistently brushed against one’s lower lumbar region, it was natural to try to identify it by reflexively directing one’s hand toward it,  just to discover what on earth the “thingamajig” was.

It was in an unusually packed compartment one day that a middle-aged lady, built in the proportions of a female wrestler, felt something hard intermittently stroking her lower lumbar region over a period of one and a half station stops. Rigidly splinted by the surrounding bodies, she could not turn around to investigate. Lifting her hand from the top of the seat she was clinging to for support, she glided it along her back toward the offending object. Fearing the worst, she let out a wild scream when she felt a hard knob against the upper end of her natal cleft.

Determined to rid herself of the offending organ,  which she was certain belonged to some man, though she did not know which,  and to teach him a lesson he would never forget, she gripped the rounded object and pulled with all her considerable strength.

Meanwhile, adjacent to her and facing the opposite direction, our batchmate Happy Aponso was mentally reviewing what he had studied for the Revisal scheduled that morning, oblivious to the chaos behind him. He was suddenly shocked when he realized that the femur protruding from his pocket had been rudely yanked off by an unknown hand gripping its knob-like head.

A Rare Respite

Once in a while, we got a respite from such harsh traveling conditions. This happened when lectures, or whatever academic session was scheduled for the day, commenced after ten. We could then take a later train which, although crowded, at least offered adequate standing room, and, if lucky, even a couple of empty seats. Since there was no rush to catch the train, the waiting period on the platform was much more relaxed. We spent the time fooling around, discussing likely questions for the sigs, and grumbling about the inconvenience of carrying heavy books and, of all things, human bones in our pockets.

Dinil and the Moving Train

There was a light drizzle that morning, and all the passengers were huddled in the waiting room, which was intended for less than half the number that had crammed inside. As soon as the train arrived, we all rushed to get on,  more to escape the rain than to secure standing space, which was assumed to be available on these later trains.

I distinctly remember the incident that day, because just as the train was approaching the station, Dinil Wickramasuriya had an imminent and uncontrollable need to empty his bladder. He had to dash to the washroom at the other end of the platform and then sprint back to catch the train, which had already started moving. Clambering onto a moving train was a manoeuvre we seasoned travelers had mastered to counteract our late arrivals or unforeseen mishaps. Dinil, one of the established regulars, succeeded, aided by those inside tugging on his left arm. A particularly strong pull, however, caused him to lose his grip on Cunningham’s Manual of Practical Anatomy, Volume Two: Thorax and Abdomen (8th Edition), which he had been clutching in his rain-soaked right hand.

Landing in Misfortune

The incident I want to describe may be disgusting and repulsive to the prudes, but it needs to be described in expressive detail to preserve its full flavour. Having just made it to the train, Dinil was visibly shaken. The loss of the Cunningham was hurting him, as it had been borrowed from the Library and would incur a rather heavy financial compensation. Although a fit fellow, the sudden burst of physical effort to reach the train from the washroom was telling on him. If I were to have described his breathing to Dr. Thanabalasunderam, ‘Thanaballs’ to his students, I would have called it “stertorous.” Even cheetahs, the fastest of animals in the jungle, feel the same, I’m told, after completing a sprint chasing an unfortunate impala. So, although there was adequate standing room, Dinil needed to sit down, and sit down fast.

He was a tall chap, and looking above and between the heads of the other standing passengers, he spotted an empty seat at the far end of the compartment. He headed for it with the tenacity of a fishing eagle pouncing on a thilapiya, a bird of prey never hampered by obstacles when swooping on its victim. Our friend, however, had to negotiate several standing passengers while the train gathered speed, so he could not run hastily toward his goal but had to shuffle along in small, unsteady steps. If he were to describe Dinil’s walk to students at one of his interesting ward classes, the amiable Dr. Ratnavale, consultant neurologist, would have given the technical term: “festination,” the characteristic gait of those unfortunate enough to be afflicted with Parkinson’s disease.

A lion, having taken its time to stalk a deer or gazelle, cannot resist lunging when it senses the prey is close enough. Dinil, having taken time to negotiate several standing passengers, had the same intuition. Once near his goal, he performed a simultaneous forward thrust and rotation that an Olympic gymnast would have been proud of, and landed squarely on the seat.

Mentally considering himself fortunate to have located the seat, and commending himself for his agility in reaching it, Dinil was at a loss to interpret the loud guffaws and laughter from his fellow passengers. In the meantime, although his clothes were already drenched from the rain, he became aware of a fresh clammy feeling on the bottom of his pants, accompanied by a marked faecal odour. His bewilderment was resolved by his immediate neighbour, a sympathetic old gent, who whispered that the seat he had landed on was unoccupied only because a child had evacuated his bowels on it.

Disembarking and Reflection

It is universally known that a faecal mass, while dormant, lies where it is with no hindrance to man or beast. But once disturbed, it makes its presence felt across a wide radius. In this instance, the breeze from the sea beside the rail track was literally blowing it out of proportion. Everyone around who spoke or laughed did so with a heavy nasal twang, holding their noses tight.

When the train reached our destination, Bambalapitiya, we trickled out, taking deep breaths of fresh air to compensate for the anoxic anoxia we had endured from holding our breaths. 

But Dinil, embarrassed and depressed, would not get up, despite being reminded that we had reached our destination and coaxed to disembark.

He finally did, just as the train lurched forward. Drenched to the skin and clutching his meagre belongings, he stood there motionless, a man forever convinced that that rain, like misfortune, always arrived with impeccable timing; in his reckoning, it never rained, it poos.