No 1 Madras Mail 🛤️

After many years, I travelled once again from Chennai to Kannur in the  Madras–Mangalore Mail. The coaches are modern, enhanced interiors with brighter lighting and larger windows but  most passengers travel in silence with earphones plugged in.  As the train slowly rolled out of Puratchi Thalaivar Dr. M.G. Ramachandran Central Railway Station, something deep inside me awakened.

I was suddenly taken back to 1988 ; to my student days in Madras, when this very train was proudly known as the legendary No.1 Madras–Mangalore Mail.

The  Mangalore–Madras Mail was originally known as Train No. 1 making it one of the very first and most prestigious trains of the old Madras Railway Company. Even the name carried dignity. “No.1 Mail.” Back then, Chennai was Madras and Madras Central  station in the evenings had a world of its own.

For those who travelled through Madras Central in the 1980s and 90s , the central station was not merely a place to catch a train. The sight of the iconic Victorian-Gothic station with its tall clock towered red brick façade, the echoing announcements beneath the high roof, , and a last-minute visit to Higginbotham’s remain inseparable parts of the memory of rail travel in that era. The station was always full of life .  Commuters  dragging steel trunks, porters in red shirts shouting above the noise. The moment you walked further down the platform toward the tail end of the train, the air itself changed suddenly.  Huge cane baskets tied with coir rope, aluminium containers, sacks, and wooden crates loaded into the luggage van carried the unmistakable smell of fish packed in ice for markets across South India . Mixed with it came the smell of wet gunny bags, diesel smoke, and the metallic scent of train compartment baking all day under the Madras sun. It all blended into the identity of the old No 1 Madras Mail.

At exactly 7:10 PM, the No. 1 Madras  Mail would slowly come alive with a deep metallic groan. While the whistle blew, there was a sudden jerk, and the long train begin its slow departure past the crowded platforms of Madras Central. Inside the sleeper compartments, strangers gradually became companions for the night.  Some  passengers discussed Kerala politics loudly , often turning the entire coupe  into an impromptu debating hall. In the next coupe, families opened their dinner packets. The aroma of  curry, pickle, and home-cooked meals drifted through the coach. Children, excited by the adventure of an overnight train journey, scrambled onto the upper berths within minutes, claiming them as their temporary kingdoms. A middle-aged man changed into his familiar lungi and shirt, carefully folding his trousers and placing them under his pillow. Someone spread a bed sheet, another secured a chain around a suitcase, while the TTE  makes his rounds as the train gathered speed.

The train itself had music. The rhythmic clanking of wheels. The chains swaying near the doors. . The fans hummed overhead and the Vendors shouting “coffee… coffee…” There will be occasional smell of cigarette smoke near  the washbasin area and the permanently wet railway toilet announcing its presence long before one reached it.

Sleep usually came slowly, somewhere after Arakkonam station , as conversations gradually halts . Occasionally, the train would thunder through a dimly  lit station and opposing trains on adjacent tracks. The gentle sway of the coach, the cool night air drifting through the barred windows, and the steady rhythm of the Madras Mail slowly lulled everyone to sleep carrying us southward towards north Kerala.

And then came morning.

Most mornings, it was the loud tea vendors at Shoranur who woke me up around six.

Half asleep, I would slowly sit up and look through the iron bars of the window. As the train moved forward, I would quietly stare outside.  The world outside suddenly turned green with endless paddy fields, coconut trees swaying in the morning breeze, tiny houses hidden among banana plants, and mist floating above the fields. Sleep would disappear instantly. That first sight of Kerala after seeing  dry plains of Tamil Nadu and the bustling Madras city  for months always felt deeply emotional. Soon, the Bharatha puzha would appear beside the train, flowing quietly through the morning mist like a silver streak.  Some mornings it flowed in full glory, broad and majestic after the rains; at other times  it was reduced to scattered streams glistening among endless sandbanks.  Yet, whatever its form, the sight of the Bharathapuzha always felt like a welcome home.  The train stopped at most of the  stations, each carrying its own memories.

Within 2 hours , its Kozhikode, a stop for 10 minutes. For me, returning from Madras, Kozhikode always meant a few special things; I would suddenly feel hungry the moment the train stopped at Kozhikode. Nothing tasted better than a samosa with strong, sweet, boiling hot tea poured into plastic tumblers by men running along the platform with aluminium kettles in hand.  As the train crossed Vadakara, Mahe, and Thalassery, excitement overcomes the 15 hour journey . After tellicherry , the bags are kept out , face washed  and the hairs combed , I stand  near the door long before arrival, letting the cool  air hit the face.

Finally, around 10.15 in the morning, the Madras Mail would enter Kannur station and soon , the lonely student from Madras became a pampered son again at home.

Today the  Chennai Mangaluru mail may carry a different number, modern coaches, and silent passengers staring at glowing screens. But somewhere between Chennai Central at night and Kannur in the morning , I realised the Madras Mail was never really about reaching a destination. It was about everything in between.