Then the roar deepened and the train hurtled into the side of the hill, which magically opened up into a tunnel. The light turned from rain-soaked grey to fluorescent orange-punctured black—and back again to daylight a few seconds later. Now the water was an equal—ponds, streams, submerged fields, all locking eyes flirtatiously with the rail tracks.
The Konkan Railway has had a far rougher ride than any of its trains do. Although now a poster-child of project completion in India—and E. “Delhi Metro” Sreedharan’s first major project accomplishment—it faced significant opposition on environmental issues between 1991 and 1993; protesters even demanded a different route.
Eventually, it started operations two years late, in 1998, and at $920 million (around Rs4,416 crore now), cost $646 million more than the budgeted $274 million.
All that seemed just so much water under one of the 200 bridges en route as the Mandovi Express squeaked to a halt at Anjani, some 100km from Roha. And finally, the sheer vastness of the Sahyadris hit me. Soon, as if in a build up for the afternoon, there was an unscheduled halt at Ukshi station, right at the mouth of a tunnel.
Hours spent on footboards do make one hungry, and I was called back to my seat by the lunch being served. I had a choice of dosa, biryani, dal-subzi-roti or Chinese. Also, unexpectedly, sliced watermelon and gulab jamun.
Meal over, we chugged into Ratnagiri, a station no different from others on the line, despite the fact that it serves a relatively large town. One reason that the stations are sleepy is that Konkan Railway tracks never pass very close to towns.
Soon, the afternoon light began to mellow, bathing the series of small stations in a grey-gold glow. Haunting in their loveliness, perhaps because they looked so lonely, the only human presence they offered was the uniformed station master, all alone, holding an unfluttering green flag, almost as a mark of defiance.
Each station came with its own nature-contributed landscape attached. The ones at Nivsar and Vilawade—situated between two tunnels—overlook enormous drops and vast valleys. Rajapur Road is a narrow strip between two rock faces: If it weren’t for the white boards, you wouldn’t know it was a station. Flowers lined the tracks, making them look like they were on fire, with bougainvillea the reigning queen.
And, always, the water. There were the small, placid, serene streams that came and went. The rivers—some swift, bright and tumbling, such as the Kundalika, some dusky and still like the Savitri—flowing along the tracks for miles together. And alongside, stubbornly dry brown trees and grey rocks amid lush green plants.
The skies darkened as the train headed towards the languid Zuari river, the 1km-long bridge over it bringing the journey to a gentle end. I didn’t expect a finale, and I didn’t get one either as the Mandovi Express rolled quietly into Madgaon station. How could one journey have offered so many different kinds of riches?
Trip planner/The Konkoan route