One man's bread on rails

A good way of doing India would be to visit all the railway stations in this country. More than the elected representatives or the Republic Day parade, it is the railway stations, which offer a microcosm of the region's peculiarities and cuisine. Moreover, I prefer the train journey over flying as the rocking coach puts me to sleep under a regulation blanket and I am served like a maharaja instead of eating out of a plastic tray from a pillory. There have been times when I have dipped into my co-passenger's polymer tray than mine. This has been met by, "Young man, if you wanted another mashed potato, you should have asked." In fact, it was the Bangalore Rajdhani that had given me the impression that Karnataka was a Catholic state. The moment I reached Daund station, many vendors ran up and down the platform yelling Christ, Christ, Christ. I bowed in reverence only to find that it refers to the conjunction Ghee Rice, which in turn was a local moniker for biryani. On the line from Delhi to Porbandar you only get rough atta puri fried in mustard oil dipped in potato and tomato curry. The whole 36-hour journey will offer you the same heavenly taste. That's standardisation at its best. This is not the case on the Kolkata to Guhawati route. The world changes around you at every station. You gradually notice more rice and chena -based dishes at the stations such as sitabhog, mihidana finally ending with bamboo shoots boiled in light spices as you approach Assam. If you read a book, you will be thrust a drink out of a cracked coconut every hour by a panting vendor ready to have a coronary attack. He will hold it out to you to influence your watery decision, at the same time holding on to the bunch of 50 or so coconuts on his shoulder and sweating from every pore. For a hot drink, the best place would be Sawai Madhopur station where the teashop is open all night. The spiced up tea served in regal style makes you want to stay on at the platform and inform your hotel of your cancellation. On the contrary, if you ever have the ill luck of boarding a second class compartment of the Tamil Nadu Express out of Chennai heading for New Delhi and if you're not a Tamilian, then you will be plagued by smells of freshly cooked upma but not offered anything to eat till you reach Ballarshah station. If you step into the pantry car to desperately look for food, you will discover large utensils full of freshly cooked delicious upma , which will be dismissed as, "not for passingjers . Staff lunchay ". The rations for the troops look surprisingly well brewed while the passengers can only partake of the aroma. A balanced diets no doubt. The result: the vendors at Ballarshah station are savvy about Tamilian hospitality and therefore make the most of it. Between Ballarshah and Chennai you pass Andhra Pradesh where you see the lonely guard checking the bolts a million times with a single explanation, "Naxalite". At the same time, not a single soul, not even a dog peed on the platforms. Everyone has enlisted with the cause. In stark contrast, you have Vasco in Goa where the icecream vendor leaves his cash box open and goes to look for change. When he comes back, he hands you the change with a smile and slams the coffers shut without a care in the world