Railways and Art: Wheels within wheels now!

Railways and Art: 

Wheels within wheels now!

 

I have worn the badge of an Indian Railways officer for thirty-five years, yet the full, unbridled drama of a moving train struck me only one hazy, languid evening somewhere between Hindupur and Bangalore. It was during what we prosaically call a window trailing inspection—though there is nothing prosaic about it if you have a soul. The end wall of an inspection carriage, or saloon, carries glass lookouts that offer a living, breathing, cinematic panorama of the world slipping away behind a speeding train. Technically, you sit there to “inspect” the track and stations. In truth, I often sat there simply to drink in the rush of it all—the sheer exhilaration of life unspooling in a reel of light and shadow.

 

I have read, time and again, that locomotives and trains were magnificent—if slightly unsettling—creations. Sensational machines that, since their birth two centuries ago, have inspired art in every imaginable form. One can easily grasp how a technological marvel born of human genius could enchant the Western mind. But that evening, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, I realised it wasn’t the iron romance of the train that held me—it was the magic of India itself, framed in that glass window.

Not the polite, postcard-perfect countryside you might glimpse abroad, but a ceaseless, kaleidoscopic theatre of contrasts: vast, sunlit fields and dusty village roads; drowsy wayside stations and children sprinting to catch a glimpse; a woman balancing water pots like a goddess of grace; a man sprawled under a tree in total surrender to the heat; crowds surging at one halt, and at the next, a silence so wide it echoed. There was joy here, and grief too; moments trite yet oddly moving; tenderness and grit; struggle, exertion, and sudden stillness. It was life—simple in appearance, impossibly complex beneath.

I sat there bewitched, bewildered, almost chastened. What was I doing, gulping down this living poetry with my eyes… and doing nothing about it?

 

Art, after all, must imitate life—and here life was, thundering at more than 100 kilometres an hour, begging to be told.

 

 

 

 

And thus was set in motion a vibrant movement to weave Art into the very fabric of Indian Railways’ public spaces. I joined forces with my colleague, the ever-creative Lily Pandeya, to breathe beauty into stations and rail premises—through lively art camps, striking murals, evocative sculptures, and even the opening of a full-fledged gallery. Our journey, painted in hues of passion and persistence, now lives on in our coffee-table book Art and Railways: A Bangalore Saga.

 

That was years ago. After a parched artistic spell in Germany—a land rich in inspiration but stingy with canvases—I have returned to familiar shores. I now find myself in the Rail Wheel Factory (RWF) at Bangalore, a realm of relentless machinery and clanging steel, a place as artless as a blank wall under a flickering tube light.

 

Another journey was calling.

 

Clad in a fireproof suit that made him look every bit the astronaut on a perilous spacewalk, a workman stood tall before a brutally red-hot wheel. In his hand, a slender, torch-like tool; on his face, the calm of one who has stared into the sun before. The air shimmered with unbearable heat, defied only by the furious blast of an industrial fan. Of all the spectacles I witnessed on my first day at the Rail Wheel Factory, this one seared itself into my mind.

 

They told me the man was performing something called “sprue washing”—a phrase as mysterious as the act itself. Soon, this single image was joined by a kaleidoscope of everyday sights in the factory: sparks flying like meteors, steel singing under the hammer, shadows dancing in the glow of molten metal. And with each scene, my resolve grew. The journey had to begin now—this time, my canvas was unlike any other.

 

Pictures, after all, speak in a language no pen can rival. All this, in less than two months. The workmen here are nothing short of extraordinary. More tales will follow—once my lens has more stories to tell.