‘The intimate and the epic’: the best way to understand India is to travel by train

The Indian Railways, a colossal enterprise and one of the world’s largest rail networks under a single management, is more than just a transportation system; it is the arteries and veins of a nation, pumping life, commerce, and culture across its vast expanse. From its colonial origins in the mid-19th century, designed primarily for strategic and economic exploitation by the British, the railways have transformed into a symbol of independent India’s resilience and unity. Post-independence, it became a crucial instrument of nation-building, connecting disparate regions, fostering economic integration, and facilitating social mobility. Today, it remains a critical infrastructure, transporting over 8 billion passengers and more than a billion tonnes of freight annually, a testament to its enduring relevance.

I recall vividly a rail journey I undertook in 1998 – that brutal summer of nuclear testing, a period etched in national memory not just for the searing heat but also for India’s audacious declaration on the global stage. Setting out from Mumbai, then still Bombay, in an ordinary three-tier sleeper, my destination was Dehradun, a journey spanning over 1,000 miles (1,600km) north into the foothills of the Himalayas. The political climate was tense, with international sanctions looming, but on the ground, the immediate reality was the oppressive natural climate. The frazzled train, already a relic of a bygone era with its non-air-conditioned carriages and bare-bones amenities, soon fell off any semblance of a schedule. The voyage grew longer, past 50 hours, an endurance test of monumental proportions. The heat intensified relentlessly, past 50C (122F), a temperature that makes the very air feel like a physical assault. I remember the metallic burn on the window grilles, too hot to touch; the hot, killing wind that blew through them, carrying dust and the scent of parched earth; the sizzle of water drops splashed on the face when they hit the uncovered, sun-baked platforms in the heart of the country; and the literal melt of my rubber soles on the scorching floor. This was not a journey of comfort but one of profound sensory overload, a crucible that tested patience and endurance. Yet, a fortnight later, having trekked to the mouth of a a tributary of the Ganges, completing my expedition from the Arabian Sea to a Himalayan glacier, it was possible to look back on the rail ordeal with a strange, almost fond affection. The harshness of the journey had forged an indelible memory, a sense of having truly traversed the heart of India, both geographically and experientially.

This intense memory, I now wonder, seeped into the heat-addled odyssey made by the runaway protagonist of my novel, Railsong. Physically depleted as she is by its end, she is sustained not by material comforts but by the sheer benevolence and solidarity of strangers encountered along the way. Alighting in the great city of Bombay, as Mumbai was then called, standing below the intricate gargoyles of the gothic masterpiece then known as the Victoria Terminus (and now the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus), she experiences a profound transformation. She knows, deep in her bones, that she has emerged on the other side of something significant, a journey that has redefined her existence. The railway, in both my experience and my fiction, serves as a powerful conduit for personal revelation and collective humanism.

Indeed, in no other activity, so easily available to all, does India offer itself up as wholly and authentically as through train travel. Mahatma Gandhi, initially a vocal critic of the railway system, famously declaring that "Railways accentuate the evil nature of man" for facilitating rapid movement and disconnecting people from their immediate environment, underwent a profound change of heart. Upon his return from South Africa, he embraced the railways as an indispensable tool for understanding the vast, diverse, and complex nation he sought to liberate. His extensive train journeys across India allowed him to connect with the common people, to witness their struggles, and to grasp the true pulse of the country. This historical precedent underscores why I recommend to the prospective traveller not necessarily the meticulously curated heritage or scenic routes – though by all means, sample the quaint narrow- or metre-gauge hill railways like the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway or the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, or the gorgeous run down the Konkan coast – but instead, using the railways simply as a means of getting from one place to another. It is in these ordinary journeys that the extraordinary essence of India reveals itself.

In the process of such travel, one learns much about oneself. Consider sleeper travel, particularly in the non-air-conditioned classes. Is there a situation more exposing, more inherently social, than sharing a cramped compartment with strangers for hours, sometimes days, on end? Here, social distinctions blur, personal boundaries soften, and an unwritten code of shared humanity often prevails. With luck, you might fall into invigorating company, transforming a mundane journey into an unforgettable encounter. A few months ago, I made an overnight trip up from Mumbai to Delhi with three large policemen. One was nursing an injured toe, another was dedicated to his newspaper, the third engrossed in his phone. Each was initially taciturn, wary perhaps, as is often the case in such close quarters. Yet, as the journey unspooled, so did their stories. They were on an assignment to capture a suspect in Delhi. They recounted a previous outing to the capital where a slippery accused murderer had led them on a relentless chase for more than 600 miles across three states – a tale that captured the vastness of India and the dedication of its law enforcement. They joked about the possibility of making headlines again. Another time, a painstaking manhunt had taken them all the way to Mangaluru on the south-western coast, only for them to discover the fellow they were looking for was a namesake of the actual culprit. However, in a twist of fate, this namesake turned out to be wanted himself in a decades-old riots case, leading to a successful arrest and, for the diligent officers, a well-deserved medal. These are the narratives that unfold, unsolicited, in the democratic crucible of an Indian train compartment, offering glimpses into lives far removed from one’s own.

Food, too, is a valuable and enduring companion on the rails, an integral part of the sensory experience. While the grandeur of colonial-era dining cars is largely a thing of the past, and regulations about open flames have restricted the variety of platform fare, and the foil-boxed meals served on premium services trigger thousands of official complaints every year and much casual grousing – eating remains a crucial railway habit, a communal ritual. The culinary landscape of Indian train travel is a journey in itself, a reflection of the country’s diverse gastronomic heritage. Depending on the season and your specific route, it is possible to pop out onto the platform during a halt and buy top-notch, farm-fresh produce: luscious lychees from Bihar, creamy custard apples from Maharashtra, sweet bananas from the south, and the king of fruits, mangoes, in places famed for them during their season.

On the Mumbai-Pune route in the west, a particular highlight awaits at Karjat station. Here, vendors expertly align themselves with the carriage doors, bearing metal trays piled high with the town’s famed vada pav – a deep-fried, lightly spiced potato ball, placed inside a soft bun with a mix of dry and wet chutneys (for the cautious, the dry is usually safer). This iconic street food, often dubbed the "Bombay burger," is a staple for commuters and a must-try for travellers. Further along the same route, as banker (helper) engines valiantly push the rake (coupled carriages) up the steep gradients of the Western Ghats, the charming hill station of Lonavala offers up its famous chikki – an energy-boosting sweet made from nuts and jaggery (unrefined cane sugar), a perfect travel snack – and the more decadent chocolate walnut fudge, a delightful indulgence. In the southern states of Telangana and Karnataka, you might help yourself, as I did a few years ago, to vividly peppy breakfasts of ograni – a mixture of soft puffed rice and an array of condiments and spices, similar yet so distinct from the crunchy, mustardy puffed-rice jhalmuri of Bengal in the east. Beyond these regional specialties, there is always the simple, universal prospect of packing yourself a tuck – a homemade meal or snacks – and sharing food with any friends you make along the way, a gesture that often breaks down barriers and fosters camaraderie. The omnipresent chaiwallahs, balancing their tea pots and cups with practiced ease, complete the culinary canvas, offering steaming cups of spiced tea at every major halt.

Despite the myriad challenges that Indian train travel can present – delays, crowds, occasional discomfort – the journeys are, by and large, immensely pleasurable and remarkably affordable, not to mention environmentally sustainable. In an era of increasing environmental consciousness, railways offer a significantly lower carbon footprint compared to air travel, making them a responsible choice for long-distance journeys. For these reasons, my family and I do as much of our travelling as possible by rail. Routinely, we curve out east from Delhi, across the great swathe of the Gangetic plains, a journey that sees the dusty brownscapes gradually giving way to vibrant greens, up past the trim tea gardens in the eastern Himalayan foothills, through the narrow, strategically vital corridor known as the “chicken’s neck” (officially, the Siliguri Corridor), and finally into bamboo-shaded Assam, to my wife’s ancestral home. This run, typically 24 or 28 hours long, depending on the specific service and its scheduled halts, sometimes stretches past 35 hours due to unforeseen circumstances. Yet, our two young girls, far from being restless, embrace these extended journeys. They don’t mind; in fact, it’s flights that make them feel claustrophobic, whereas the train offers space to move, peer out of windows, and engage with the unfolding drama of India.

The causes of these delays, while frustrating in the moment, are often dramatic, and indeed, instructive about the intricate, sometimes chaotic, fabric of Indian life. One time, our journey was halted due to a station footbridge collapsing under the immense weight of Kumbh Mela pilgrims – typically, a last-minute change of platforms causing a stampede – in the town then known as Allahabad (since renamed Prayagraj by a regime intent on scrubbing Islamic fingerprints off Indian history, a move reflecting broader political currents in contemporary India). More than 40 people died in that tragic 2013 incident, a stark reminder of the challenges of managing colossal crowds during India’s massive religious festivals and the strain on public infrastructure. Such events put into perspective my trivial discomfort of waiting in the chilly hours for the train to pull into Mughalsarai (also renamed, after the philosopher Deen Dayal Upadhyay). On another occasion, a derailment sent us on a circuitous gallivant through Bihar and Bengal, transforming a direct route into an unexpected exploration of new territories. Then there was the time our rake first mowed down three cows – a sadly common occurrence on unfenced tracks, highlighting the complex relationship between humans and animals in rural India – and then, in the middle of the night, smashed into a stalled Jeep. Mercifully, the occupants of the Jeep managed to get away. Unfortunately, this is not always the case, and railway accidents, though decreasing, remain a serious concern for the vast network.

On a monsoonal Assamese morning in 2012, the train I was on came to a complete standstill beside a paddy field. This was an inexpensive regional service, fitted with unreserved bench-seating – in Indian Railways parlance, a "passenger" train – and it was already known for halting at the merest hint of a station. But even by the relaxed standards of passenger trains, this seemed like an eccentric location. Eventually, compelled by curiosity, I climbed off to investigate. In front of the locomotive sat a mangled autorickshaw, its bright yellow shell crumpled beyond recognition. The bodies of three men had been laid alongside the tracks, silent witnesses to the abrupt, brutal intersection of human lives and the unyielding power of the railway. It was a sobering moment, a stark reminder of the often-fragile line between life and death that runs alongside the tracks, a raw slice of reality in a country where such incidents, though tragic, are not uncommon.

I don’t mean to deter you from passenger services with these anecdotes. In fact, I highly recommend them precisely for their unvarnished authenticity. In a land as diverse and vibrant as India, a passenger train is a full-blooded immersion in the local: the kaleidoscopic variety of dress, the fresh produce the farmers carry to market, the simple yet delicious food vendors serve up, and the unknown halts that mail and express trains roar past without a glance, which are, in themselves, the bustling centres of their own little worlds. These are the places where India breathes, unedited and unrestrained. After all, on the railways, as in certain profound novels, the intimate and the epic, the local and the national, the personal joy and the collective sorrow, are inextricably linked together, making the whole, creating an experience that is uniquely, unforgettably Indian.

Rahul Bhattacharya’s latest novel, Railsong, is published by Bloomsbury (£18.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.