Track Walker - Yadaiah’s Story
It is 7 am on a hot & humid April morning. Waiting for the Krishna Express to speed over a piece of track that’s just been repaired, Yadaiah and I are already sweating profusely. While I am fidgety and want to drink every litre of water we have, Yadaiah is a picture of calm. “Don’t drink everything you have right now. What will do for the rest of the 7km you need to walk with me?”
Yadaiah is a ‘gangman’, a term the Indian Railways uses to call its foot soldiers. Often armed with nothing more than a long handle sledgehammer, a spanner and a block of wood, Yadaiah’s job is to walk 8 kilometers a day inspecting every square inch of track on his beat and making sure every nut, bolt and weld holding the rails to the ground is in place. It’s tough work. Without people like him, the railways will grind to a halt.
Both of us step aside as the red locomotive with its assortment of coaches clackety-clacks over the piece of track that’s been set right. The engine toots enthusiastically as if it found the ride over this patch Rolls Royce smooth. As the coaches disappear over a bend, Yadaiah seems to disagree. He sighs, lunges forward with his hammer and knocks a clip holding the rail to concrete sleeper into its groove even tighter. “There, now it’s perfect”, his coarse voice belying the enthusiasm of a job well done. We walk on. The slow and steady pace somewhat neutralizing the clumsiness and sole crushing nature of treading on gravel and concrete bars. I am wearing 2000 rupee sneakers. Yadaiah has tattered leather slippers - the area near the heel is completely worn out and on certain steps, the gravel lightly punctures his skin. As if preternaturally tuned to what I am thinking he says, “I’ve worn this chappal for the past 3 years. I don’t want to replace it until they give me boots. Last year, a bunch of us from the union presented our case for such boots, but we were told that the money had to come out from the uniform allowance. That means I have to wait for another year”. Indignation now clearly showing on his face.
It’s a face that’s seen much and been through a lot. A greying light beard covers hollowed out cheeks and a Jay Leno-ish chin. His thin smile reveals two front teeth missing and the nose is slight bent near the bridge. I ask him about it. “Broke the nose during my first year on duty. I swung the sledgehammer a little too hard and on the return arc, the handle caught me. The officer who was present cursed and bellowed at me rather than give me any help. Apparently, I was the only one on duty assigned to him that day and I had ruined his work”.
Between deep stares at every inch of the track and occasional swings of the sledgehammer, Yadaiah tells me that he got this job on compassionate grounds. His father had been an alcoholic, philandering sweeper based at Kazipet station. And after a particularly drunken night, had found himself on the wrong side of the track. He remembers in vivid detail about how they couldn’t even recognize the corpse at the mortuary. “At that time, I was working on a farm owned by a relative. I was earning somewhat ok, but after that accident, my mother wanted me to take up a proper job”, he says with hints of regret creeping in. “You didn’t want to apply for a railway job?” “No, I thought if I worked hard at that farm, I could take it over in a few years. But my mother was very stubborn”. And so began the steady and sometimes bribe-laden trips to the head office in Secunderabad. “I struggled for nearly 9 months before they appointed me in the same position as my father. I hated that stupid sweeping”. Through a series of appeals to officers, he managed to get himself transferred to his present job. I ask him why he chose this instead of the many positions available in stations for people of his skill level. “The freedom, saar. I like being outside and watching and walking. Even as a kid I used to accompany my father on his duty. I don’t have to answer to some officer everyday”. An rebellious and broad smile appears across his face.
We are at a switch expansion joint and Yadaiah is suddenly all attentive. SEJ’s are places where long pieces of track (as long as 10km) which have been welded together meet. The concrete sleepers supporting them are much heavier and broader and so are the fish-plates and clips holding the rails down. He circles the area twice, looking for some minute cracks or a lose nut. I can’t figure out how he can spot such things given that most of the joint is liberally coated in grease. I suppose it’s practice. 27 years doing the same thing teaches you a thing or two.
It’s past 10 am and the fierce Deccan sun is giving me a serious headache. My cap is drenched in sweat and the salt water running down the side of my shirt shows no sign of stopping. I feel mildly dehydrated. Yadaiah, on the other hand seems as sprightly as ever. Chiding me, “Saar, I am 51. Surely you are much fitter than what you are showing now”. I wish I could agree with him, but after 3hrs and 5 km later, I am no longer in a position to do so. We find some shade under a large neem tree, the slight breeze being cooled by the miraculous properties of the leaves. As a couple of heavy freight trains lumber by, we have our breakfast. Stone cold and rock hard idlis with a coconut chutney that has seen fresher hours. I don’t complain. The equanimity and stoicness on Yadaiah’s face doesn’t allow me to. “Saar, I am going to rest for a few min. If you want you can sleep too. We have a kilometer and a half to reach the end of my beat”. As tired as I am, I can’t bring myself to lie down. I look out listlessly at the tracks wondering. Wondering about the kind of discipline one needs to keep doing this kind of work. Wondering about the patience one needs to develop to go through days like this. Wondering about the physical toll the lack of proper equipment is taking. I turn back and see Yadaiah gently snoring. The chest heaving rhythmically along with the orange shirt. He seems content. And in that instant, I lie down too.
A few weeks later, I meet him again at my favourite spot for photographing trains. The weather’s turned monsoony and there’s a steady drizzle when comes around the bend and up a slight gradient. He grins, “No proper equipment in rain also, saar”. His rain cap has holes, the solution for which is a large thin sheet of plastic draped around his head and chest. I can sense that he’s quite excited and I ask him about that. “I won a cash reward from the chief engineer boss. I detected a rail fracture and called in the repair crew just 10 min before a freight train was supposed to pass. They gave 3000 rupees and all the officers were very proud. I can finally buy a phone and some boots with that money”.
“Saar, have you finished writing about me?”. “No, not yet”. “Ok, if you can please let everyone know that people like us work for the railways too. We are just as important and we deserve respect for our work”.
And with that he walks off to finish the last leg of his inspection. A lone orange rider guarding the grey of stone and silver of rail.
