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

My own memories are punctuated by these rail odysseys. I vividly recall a particular journey in 1998 – that brutally hot summer etched into national memory by the country’s controversial nuclear tests at Pokhran in May. The geopolitical tremors of those days, when India declared itself a nuclear weapons state, cast a unique pall over the scorching heat. Setting out from the bustling metropolis of Mumbai, then still largely known as Bombay, I embarked on a thousand-mile (1,600km) pilgrimage northward to Dehradun, nestled at the foothills of the Himalayas. My chosen chariot was an ordinary three-tier sleeper carriage, a democratic space where every stratum of Indian society converges. The train, a microcosm of India itself, seemed to absorb the national mood of tension and anticipation, its frazzled schedule stretching beyond all recognition. What should have been a manageable day-and-a-half journey morphed into an epic past 50 hours, the heat escalating relentlessly, soaring beyond 50 degrees Celsius (122 degrees Fahrenheit) in the peak of summer.

The sensory details of that journey remain startlingly vivid: the metallic burn radiating from the window grilles, too hot to touch; the scorching, desiccating wind that tore through the open windows, carrying dust and the scent of distant plains; the almost theatrical sizzle of water drops as they hit the uncovered, sun-baked platforms during brief halts in the heart of the country, evaporating instantly upon contact with the superheated concrete; the unnerving melt of my rubber soles against the floor of the compartment, softened by the oppressive heat. It was an endurance test, a physical ordeal that pushed the limits of comfort. Yet, a fortnight later, having successfully trekked to the mouth of a tributary of the Ganges, completing my expedition from the Arabian Sea to a Himalayan glacier, I could look back on that arduous rail voyage with a surprising affection. It had been more than just a means of transport; it was a rite of passage, a profound immersion in the raw reality of India.

This experience, I now realise as I write, inevitably seeped into the heat-addled odyssey undertaken by the runaway protagonist of my novel, Railsong. Physically depleted and emotionally raw by the end of her journey, she is nonetheless sustained by the unexpected benevolence and spontaneous solidarity of strangers encountered along the way. Alighting in the great city of Bombay, standing below the formidable gargoyles of the gothic masterpiece then called the Victoria Terminus – now magnificently renamed the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus – she understands that she has emerged on the other side of something transformative. The journey, with all its discomforts and epiphanies, has forged her anew.

In no other activity, so readily available and accessible to such a vast swathe of its population, does India offer itself up so completely and authentically as through train travel. This sentiment echoes the complex relationship even Mahatma Gandhi held with the railway system. Initially, the Father of the Nation was a staunch critic, famously declaring that "Railways accentuate the evil nature of man," believing they facilitated the rapid spread of both goods and vices, disrupting traditional village life. However, upon his return from South Africa in 1915, Gandhi quickly recognised the unparalleled power of the railways. He judiciously used them as his primary mode of transport, crisscrossing the subcontinent to understand its diverse peoples, its myriad problems, and its deep-seated aspirations. It was on these rail journeys, often in third-class carriages, that he truly connected with the soul of India, laying the groundwork for the freedom struggle.

This historical endorsement underpins my recommendation to the prospective traveler: do not necessarily prioritise only the celebrated heritage or breathtakingly 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 experience the gorgeous run down the Konkan coast, a marvel of modern engineering winding through tunnels and over viaducts. Instead, embrace the railways simply as a fundamental way of getting from one place to another. Choose an ordinary express or passenger train, and allow the journey itself to be the destination.

In the process, one learns not only about India but also profoundly about oneself. Consider the unique dynamics of sleeper travel, particularly in the non-air-conditioned classes. Is there a situation more exposing, more conducive to self-reflection and candid human interaction, than sharing a confined compartment with strangers for hours, or even days? With a stroke of luck, you might fall into truly invigorating company, individuals whose life stories unfold with the miles. A few months ago, I embarked on an overnight trip from Mumbai to Delhi, sharing my bay with three large policemen. One nursed an injured toe, another was absorbed in his newspaper, the third glued to his phone – each initially taciturn, wary, and self-contained. Yet, as the journey unspooled its rhythmic miles, so too did their stories. They were on a mission, heading to Delhi to apprehend a suspect. Their anecdotes were as gripping as any thriller: if this assignment mirrored their last Delhi outing, where a slippery accused murderer led them on a chase spanning over 600 miles across three states, these officers would undoubtedly make headlines again. Another time, a painstaking manhunt had taken them to Mangaluru on the south-western coast, only for them to discover the fugitive’s namesake – himself wanted in a decades-old riots case. That unexpected twist, a serendipitous capture, earned them a medal, a testament to the unpredictable nature of their work and the long arm of justice in India. Such encounters are not mere distractions; they are invaluable windows into the diverse realities of Indian life.

Food, too, serves as a valuable and essential companion on the rails, an integral part of the travel experience. While the grand dining cars of yesteryear are largely gone, and stringent regulations about open flames have unfortunately restricted the traditional, chaotic charm of platform fare, and the foil-boxed meals served on premium services often trigger thousands of official complaints and much casual grousing – eating remains a crucial, almost ritualistic railway habit. Depending on the season and your specific route, it is still possible and highly recommended to pop out onto the platform during a halt and buy top-notch, farm-fresh produce: succulent lychees from Bihar, creamy custard apples from Maharashtra, sweet bananas from Jalgaon, or kingly mangoes from Ratnagiri, all sourced from places famed for their quality.

On the bustling Mumbai-Pune route in the west, vendors at Karjat station expertly align themselves with the carriage doors, bearing metal trays laden with the town’s famed vada pav – a quintessential Bombay street food. This deep-fried, lightly spiced potato ball, nestled inside a soft, fluffy bun and accompanied by a mix of dry and wet chutneys (for the cautious traveler, the dry garlic-peanut chutney is often considered the safer bet), offers an explosion of flavors. On the same route, as the powerful banker (helper) engines bravely push the heavy rake (coupled carriages) up the challenging gradients of the Western Ghats, the picturesque hill station of Lonavala offers its iconic chikki – an energy-boosting sweet brittle made from various nuts and jaggery (unrefined cane sugar) – and the more decadent chocolate walnut fudge, a delightful indulgence after a climb. In the southern states of Telangana and Karnataka, you might treat 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 distinct from the crunchy, mustardy puffed-rice jhalmuri of Bengal in the east. And, of course, there is always the prospect of meticulously packing yourself a tuck box of homemade delicacies and sharing food, a universal gesture of hospitality and camaraderie, with any friends you make along the way.

Despite the myriad challenges inherent in Indian train travel – the occasional discomforts, the unpredictable delays, the sheer human density – the journeys are, more often than not, immensely pleasurable and remarkably affordable, not to mention a far more sustainable mode of transport compared to air travel. For these compelling reasons, my family and I consciously choose to do as much of our traveling as possible by rail. Routinely, we curve out east from Delhi, traversing the immense swathe of the Gangetic plains, watching the dusty brownscapes gradually yield to lush greenery, past the trim tea gardens in the eastern Himalayan foothills, through the narrow, strategically vital corridor known colloquially as the “chicken’s neck” (officially, the Siliguri Corridor), and finally into the bamboo-shaded serenity of Assam, to my wife’s ancestral home. This run, officially scheduled for 24 or 28 hours depending on the specific service, often stretches past 35 hours. Our two young girls, surprisingly, do not mind the extended travel; in fact, it’s flights that make them feel claustrophobic, preferring the freedom to move, to observe, and to simply be, that train travel affords.

The causes of these inevitable delays are often dramatic, offering invaluable insights into the multifaceted tapestry of Indian life. On one memorable occasion, a station footbridge collapsed under the immense weight of Kumbh Mela pilgrims – a massive religious congregation – in the town then known as Allahabad. This tragic event, which occurred in 2013, was triggered by a last-minute, chaotic change of platforms, causing a stampede that claimed over 40 lives. Such a profound human tragedy put into stark perspective my trivial discomfort of waiting in the chilly hours for the delayed train to pull into Mughalsarai (a station also controversially renamed, after the right-wing ideologue Deen Dayal Upadhyaya, by a regime intent on scrubbing Islamic fingerprints off Indian history). On another occasion, a major derailment further along the line sent our train on a circuitous, unexpected gallivant through the states of Bihar and Bengal, transforming a direct route into an unplanned scenic detour. Then there was the time our rake first tragically mowed down three cows, a common but heartbreaking occurrence in a country where cattle roam freely, and then, in the dead of a moonless night, smashed into a stalled Jeep at an unmanned crossing. Fortunately, the occupants of the Jeep managed to escape just in time. Unfortunately, this is not always the case.

The stark realities of railway life were brought home to me on a monsoonal Assamese morning in 2012. The regional train I was on, an inexpensive service fitted with unreserved bench-seating – in Indian Railways parlance, a "passenger" train – came to an inexplicable standstill beside a waterlogged paddy field. Even by the standards of passenger trains, which halt at the merest hint of a station, this seemed an eccentric location. Eventually, compelled by curiosity, I climbed off to investigate. In front of the locomotive lay the mangled remains of an autorickshaw, twisted metal against the green fields. The bodies of three men, victims of the collision, had been reverently laid alongside the tracks, a stark reminder of the ever-present dangers and the fragility of life.

I don’t recount these incidents with any intention of deterring you from experiencing passenger services. Quite the contrary, in fact: I highly recommend them. In a land as incredibly diverse and vibrant as India, a passenger train offers a full-blooded, unfiltered immersion in the local culture. It’s a moving tableau of daily life: the regional dress worn by passengers, the produce that farmers carry to market, the simple yet delicious food that local vendors serve up, the unique dialects spoken, and the unknown halts that mail and express trains roar past, which are, in themselves, the bustling centres of their own little worlds. After all, on the railways, much like in certain epic novels, the intimate and the epic, the intensely local and the sweepingly national, are inextricably linked together, each thread contributing to the richness and complexity of the whole.

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.