Riding Dinajpur Commuter thru northern vista

It is a damp September morning. The early morning rain has left the long platforms of the Lalmonirhat railway station wet. The chirping of birds is heard from time to time amid the babble of passengers waiting under the blue sheds.

I walk along the bluish-yellow carriages of Dinajpur Commuter, which I will take to travel to Birol, a border upazila in the northwestern Dinajpur district. The 2609 series locomotive arrives two minutes before the departure time. Two railwaymen get down on the wet tracks and use a hammer to couple the locomotive with the rake.

Most passengers in my wood-coloured carriage have taken aisle seats as rain has dampened the ones by the windows. I also take an aisle seat, and a father, holding the hand of his little girl, comes after a while to sit next to me. I tell him the seat is wet, and he checks it with a few presses of his hand before sitting down and taking the girl on his lap.

With a long whistle, the train lurches forward, seven minutes behind schedule. It picks up speed after a small level crossing gate, racing past vibrant greenery. A few farmers work in fields, and a scarecrow stands tall in a maroon gown with white sleeves.

I glimpse a one-storey, tin-roofed house, its bright white walls contrasting sharply with the dense green fields. Such detached houses are an occasional sight in the countryside. The thought of making one of them my home has often crossed my mind during my train travels across Bangladesh.

The red-brick building of the Teesta Junction station emerges from the greenery, its rustic setting complementing the morning tranquillity. After a brief stop there, the train slowly approaches the Teesta rail bridge, which has connected the communities on both sides of the river for over a century. Beneath the gloomy sky and above the sediment-laden river, the bridge's rusty red framework exudes a grandeur that reminds me of the marvel of colonial-era engineering.

Some passengers take pictures from the windows as the train trundles on the bridge with a speed limit of 20 kilometres per hour. Leaning against the door, I see whirlpools in the murky Teesta water and try to imagine what crossing the river was like when the bridge did not exist. The Northern Bengal State Railway built the vital structure in 1899-1900, and steam-powered ferries were used to transport passengers across the river before that.

The Teesta is a major point of contention between Bangladesh and India, with the water-sharing dispute dragging on for decades. In both countries, the river is critical to the lives of millions, who rely on it for irrigation, fishing, and other purposes. The water-sharing deal was close to being signed during former Indian prime minister Manmohan Singh's 2011 visit to Bangladesh, but faced a setback due to the West Bengal government's opposition.

On the other side of the bridge is the Kaunia Junction station, the gateway to Lalmonirhat and Kurigram from Rangpur. Rails reached Kaunia by 1879 when the Northern Bengal State Railway expanded lines eastward from Parbatipur. Further expansion was not possible initially because of the river.

There are several stories about how Kaunia got its name. One of them suggests that Kaunia came from kaun (foxtail millet), which once grew abundantly in the area. But due to changes in consumers' diet, improvement in agricultural practices, and more focus on higher-yielding crops, kaun cultivation declined sharply, while rice fields dominate the landscape at present.

"Be careful. They will snatch the phone," a young man with a full beard wearing a white polo shirt and blue gabardine pants cautions me as I clasp my mobile and take photos from the door.

I smile and start a conversation with him. His name is Sujan, a native of Lalmonirhat now living in Kaunia. He is a freshman in the Bangla department at the prestigious Carmichael College, which was under the University of Calcutta till the 1947 partition of India.

"Our campus is lush and large. It is so large that the Begum Rokeya University was built on land acquired from us," he says.

"Did you try to get into a full-fledged university?"

"I did but failed. My score was just below the entry requirement."

Sujan grew up in a joint family that split after he finished his secondary education. He often extends financial support to his family. He has been making money since grade 9 by working as an independent graphic designer and is skilled in t-shirt, poster, banner, logo, and visiting card design.

"Now I am using artificial intelligence (AI) in my design. This is the AI age. I want to learn web design and may move to Dhaka after graduation if I get a job," he says enthusiastically.

Though moving to Dhaka is a remote possibility, he is soon moving to KDC Road, very close to the campus. Like many students of the college, he takes the train, which is convenient and cheap. The Lalmonirhat-Rangpur local train fare is around one-fifth of what he has to spend on a bus ride.

The train eases travel not only for students like Sujan but also many others who move between places on the route daily for work or other needs. My carriage mostly has rural men and women, their well-worn clothes and chatter about everyday affairs hinting at the ordinary life they lead. I hear a man telling someone on the phone not to unpack certain goods until he arrives at the shop, with the rest of the conversation revealing he is the business owner.

Sujan gets off at the Rangpur station and waves at me. I reciprocate and gaze at the silver-coloured oil storage tanks that rise like giant cylinders across the platform. On the platform, a well-groomed young man aims his phone at his child and asks it to pose for a photo, and the little one obeys.

Next comes the Shyampur station, where I see passengers getting on and off the local train that runs between Parbatipur and Ramna Bazar in Kurigram. As our train rolls on to Badarganj, paddy fields stretch for miles, eucalyptus trees stand like grey pillars, and humble rural houses occasionally appear in the distance like tiny dots in a vast green carpet. The rain-washed emerald green fields manifest freshness and vigour - a sight that I crave as a resident of Dhaka, where unplanned urban sprawl has stripped the city of its greenery and diminished its liveability.

Some of the fields are separated by waterlogged ones that are partially filled with algae. Small, brown lift nets stand ready to be used in the shallow water, but there are no operators in sight. Sugarcane groves surrounded by rice fields appear occasionally, a testament to the high fertility of the land used for growing a variety of crops.

Sugarcane cultivation has markedly declined in the northern region in recent years mainly because of the closure of several state-owned sugar mills, including the one in Badarganj. The government closed six mills during the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020 citing losses, triggering massive protests. Angry workers blockaded roads, burned tyres, and went on strike, while a farmer in Gaibandha set fire to his sugarcane field as a unique form of protest.

Gripping both handrails, I stick my head out of the door to soak in the authentic countryside beauty. My carriage is right after the locomotive, and a blast of hot air hits my face, as if the iron giant exhaled on me in anger. It has been drizzling for a while, and raindrops spatter my forehead and cheeks.

A small girl walking on a narrow, unpaved path along the tracks struggles to hold her umbrella steady as the strong wind produced by the speedy train pushes against it. A boy, likely of similar age and walking alongside her, offers help, and they grip the shaft together to prevent the umbrella from flipping inside out or flying away. It is, without doubt, the cutest scene I have witnessed so far on the journey.

A thatched shelter with a circular white base and blue thin pillars at the Kholahati station immediately catches my attention. It resembles a gazebo, with two men lounging on the base and enjoying the verdant surroundings. The rain has enhanced the charm of the structure built beside a large pond and under the thick foliage of big trees.

We are at the Parbatipur Junction at 8:55am, and the train stops beside a line of yellow wagons. The locomotive decouples, and we have to wait until it is coupled with the other end of the rake for the remaining journey. The station is pleasantly busy - light crowds on the platforms, a black dog wanders around, and vendors hawk snacks.

The range of snacks is impressive - sesame seed bars, hog plums, spicy puffed rice and guava cubes, popcorn, peanuts, and ice cream. As our journey resumes after around 20 minutes, the train glides out of the station and takes a sharp curve. Rickshaw vans, a popular transport in rural areas, carry men and women on unpaved rural roads that zigzag through crop fields and trees.

Passengers become annoyed as the next halt at the Chirirbandar station feels abnormally long. One of them suddenly makes a grim announcement - someone has died in a train crash, and rail lines ahead have been blockaded. I get off and stride to the station master's room to verify the claim.

The real story turns out to be equally depressing. Rail services from and to Dinajpur have been suspended as polytechnic students have blockaded tracks to press home their demands. Our train cannot proceed until the blockade is withdrawn, and the station master cannot predict when services will be restored.

Unease grips two college students standing next to me. They ask for the station master's advice, explaining that they have to take an exam. He suggests they take a bus or CNG-run autorickshaw without further delay.

As a journalist, I have sub-edited many reports on how such blockades cause distress, and now I am experiencing it firsthand. Though I have previously faced delayed departures and arrivals, this is uncharted territory for me. A technical failure of the locomotive means waiting until engineers fix it, but now I have to hold on until a group of angry people change their minds.

After a futile wait for half an hour, I finally abort the trip because of the sheer unpredictability of the situation. It is a very frustrating end. However, this frustration has given me the story of an unfinished journey, which is not created every day.

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