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On The Monsoon Trail on the Konkan Railway

On The Monsoon Trail on the Konkan Railway

Torrential downpours don't the make the ideal summer holiday and the monsoons may not be your season of choice to visit India.

Yet, every year, under the spell of the rains, the subcontinent is magically transformed into a tropical delight. It is when its rainforests, mountains and valleys go from dry and dusty to lush and resplendent. The Konkan strip on the west coast of Maharashtra, running south from Mumbai to Goa, is a stunning example.

Guarded by the Sahyadri Mountains on the east and the Arabian Sea on the west, Konkan has remained hidden for a long time. It is only recently, with the start of the Konkan Railway, that this pristine coastline has been ‘discovered’.

‘Imagine a train journey through rain drenched forests and mountains over valleys and rivers with unending views of sumptuously wet plains,’ my sister gushes. The 570 km long journey from Mumbai to Goa on the Konkan Railway is fast becoming popular as one of the most scenic train rides in the whole of India. I can’t wait to see for myself.

It is an overcast July morning when I take my window seat on the Mondovi Express headed for Goa. We pull out of Thane city and I am amazed at how quickly the world around us changes. The air turns cooler and crisper by the minute, the light fresher. As large swatches of green replace the moldy grey of concrete, Mumbai slips lightly off our shoulders and drops away.

Before long, we are cruising past Panvel through glorious country. A country alive and breathing. Shimmering in the early morning sun and hemmed in by deep purple mountains, acres and acres of paddy fields are spread out before us like patchwork quilts in all imaginable shades of green. Gentle sparkling streams weave their way through, adding their own embellishments to the tapestry. And the only grey in sight is that of the dark moody clouds that hang so low. Quintessential Konkan.

I watch mesmerized, the wind in my face, as the landscape rolls on languidly. There is the occasional small village sporting clusters of mud houses with red tiled roofs, a school sometimes and a lone temple or a mosque. The temples ornately painted in vibrant colours, the mosques serene in white against the green backdrop. Every now and then our train rumbles over large rivers swollen with rainwater and red silt as they slice angrily through the green. Little fishing boats no match for the rising currents lie anchored for the season.

As the day wears on, life stirs silently on the plains. Almost as if in slow motion, oxen plough the fields, children walk to school, and women bend over pools of shallow water planting neat rows of paddy saplings. It seems only right that we should watch all of this from the confines of our compartment lest we should tarnish what is yet an untouched and un-spoilt territory.

Inside our compartment it’s a different story. With the train well on its course the level of activity picks up. A group of regular commuters have set up their cards and are enjoying the game with loud exclamations. A family of four is discussing a forthcoming festival with much passion and the vendors are making rounds calling out over the noise to tempt us into buying their goodies. I am tempted. A hot cup of chai, even if comes in a Styrofoam cup, with an authentic wada paav (spicy potato burger) on a rainy afternoon is absolute bliss. There is more on offer; methi pakoras, and onion bhajjias, fried chilies, even dosas and idlis and twenty-six other items on the last count, served hot off the pan from the train’s own pantry car. It is great food at ridiculously low prices and by the look of those around me we are a very content lot.



Meanwhile, the train speeds along and quaint little stations come and go. Some are wedged between steep mountain walls, some perched on a platform in the middle of nowhere while some are covered in bougainvillea vines. So quiet and pretty, they look more like accessories en route than the real things.

Once past Rajapur Road the terrain gets rockier and it is all narrow gorges, steep cut rock faces and cascading waterfalls. As the train worms its way through unbelievably long, serpentine tunnels (the longest is 6.5 kms in length) and glides effortlessly over impossibly high viaducts, courting both the mountains and the rivers, the once formidable mountain range seems to have been conquered.

The 760 km rail route with a total of 2000 bridges and 91 tunnels was built on one of most difficult terrains in India at the cost of 970 million dollars and 74 lives lost in the making. But for all its trials and tribulations, it is a huge success story for the Indian Railways, a triumph of human engineering and endurance.

The sun is setting when we halt at Sawantwadi, officially marking the end of Konkan. The train nearly empties out here and it is a long stop so we get out to stretch our legs. Everything is bathed in gold and it hits me all over again, the striking beauty of this land, so close to one of the most crowed cities in India and yet astonishingly so untouched. The whistle goes off and I scramble back on board, rudely shaken out of my reverie.

As the darkness begins to spill and all has gone quiet, nearly twelve hours after we left Mumbai, we cross a moonlit Zuari River on a one km long bridge into Madgaon, Goa, our final destination. It is a haunting image that stays with me long after we get off the train. An almost sublime end to what has been a spectacular journey.

© TheTravelEditor.com

Reproduced with the kind permission of TheTravelEditor.com

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