Entering that world was always fascinating because it was so utterly different.

Whether pulling out of Delhi or leaving Madras, the long journey back to our ancestral village in interior Telangana captured our imagination as children, and that fascination has never faded.

In those days, the journey began weeks before anyone stepped onto a platform. Long before mobile phones or instant calls reached into the rural heartland, coordinating our arrival was an art form powered by India Post. We would write out an inland letter on crisp blue folding paper to my grandfather, detailing train numbers, dates, and expected arrival times. Just in case the letter was delayed or didn't arrive in time, a Telegram was dispatched as a backup. It was always a quiet marvel how those telegrams and letters penetrated deep into the interior, reliably navigating dirt tracks and quiet countryside to reach even the most remote villages well before we did.

By the time travel day arrived, the physical gear of the journey took center stage. Long before lightweight rolling suitcases existed, families traveled with heavy iron trunks painted in dull black or deep blue, padlocked tight and wrestled under the berths. Alongside them were the legendary holdalls—thick canvas bedding rolls strapped shut with sturdy leather buckles. They were our childhood sleeping bags, stuffed with thin cotton mattresses, pillows, sheets, and blankets. When night fell, unbuckling and unfurling a holdall across a berth felt like pitching a private tent inside the carriage, turning hard vinyl bunks into an instant bed while the train rocked gently in the dark.

Managing all that iron and canvas required the real supermen of the Indian railway platform: the coolies in their iconic red tunics and brass armbands. The moment the train ground to a halt, they would vault through the carriage doors before passengers could even rise from their seats. A quick round of rapid negotiation settled the rate, and in seconds, a porter would hoist a heavy trunk onto his head cloth, tuck another under an arm, balance a holdall over a shoulder, and dart down the platform at breakneck speed. Keeping up with them meant a flat-out sprint through the sea of passengers, parcel carts, and tea vendors.

Inside the carriage, time was measured not by clocks, but by the rhythm of stations and the anticipation of meals. Traveling south through Gwalior, Bhopal, and Nagpur, you always knew when dinner was approaching—often as the train neared Amla junction. We carried home-packed food for the initial stretch, but once those tins were empty, the true ritual began: watching for the compartment bearer to walk down the aisle with his order pad. Whether driven by travel hunger or the sheer novelty of it, railway catering had an irresistible charm simply because it belonged entirely to the journey.

Through the open windows, every stop held wonder. We watched the mechanical signals drop from red to green, counting the coaches of thunderous express trains rushing past on parallel lines.

Getting all the way to our ancestral village was a true expedition that peeled back layers of modernity step by step. After the long train ride, we stepped down at the junction and transferred our trunks and holdalls onto a state transport bus that rattled deep into the interior. Where the paved road finally gave way, the bus could take us no further. There, waiting patiently on the red dirt track, was the covered bullock cart sent to fetch us, with its arched woven canopy and large wooden wheels built for country ruts.

Loading the luggage into the cart and settling into the hay was the unmistakable signal that we had crossed into another realm entirely. As the cart creaked slowly along the country paths, nobody ever passed by in silence. Whether passing pedestrians walking along the bunds, crossing paths with another bullock cart, or skirting the edge of neighboring hamlets, every encounter paused for an exchange. People would call out to ask who was sitting in the cart, where they had traveled from, and whose family they belonged to. It was partly genuine curiosity, but beneath that, an instinctive warmth and care for one another.

Long before modern networks existed, that rural grapevine worked seamlessly—a human jungle telegraph operating side-by-side with the official post. By the time the cart creaked into our village, word had already traveled ahead that the family had arrived.

Weeks later, when the village stay ended and the entire sequence was replayed in reverse, pulling back into the city railway station brought one final childhood treat. Returning home with weary limbs and mountains of luggage was the only occasion that justified the grand luxury of a city taxi ride, carrying us safely through busy streets to our front door.