That year, we were quite determined to see more of northeast India; our brief visit to Shillong had whetted our appetite for the picturesque beauty of the region. And we were in no mood to let tales of the increasing militancy in the northeast deter us.

The first thing we did on reaching Siliguri was to cancel our confirmed tickets from Kolkata to Kathmandu and back. After all, who wanted to see a foreign country when we have such captivatingly beautiful land in our own nation?

Which is how, later in the day, we found ourselves boarding the train to Dimapur, Nagaland. Now that I think about it, I shudder at our sheer foolhardiness… we reached Dimapur at the unearthly hour of 1 am, bag, baggage and a small child in tow and no hotel reservation to boot. An autorickshaw driver agreed to take us to a 'good' hotel. The place was awful, but we had no choice -- we booked a room.

We awoke to thundershowers and a slowly-dawning realisation that the monsoons had firmly set in. At the tourism office, we were told there was no way we could visit Kohima or any tourist destination in the northeast for that matter; they were unapproachable due to the rains and landslides.

We had no choice but to catch the next available flight to Kolkata, a city we had already visited on earlier vacations. We were not keen on spending any time there, particularly since the Lok Sabha elections were scheduled to take place in a few days. But our return ticket to Cochin was booked for a week later.

It took us the better part of a day -- and long hours spent in various queues at the Howrah and Sealdah railway stations -- before we could actually get our tickets cancelled. The bad news was that there were no immediate tickets available to Cochin.

We wanted to cheat a determined Fate that was hell-bent on ruining our trip. We decided we would go down the east coast and reach Cochin leisurely, booking ourselves in trains where tickets were available.

As we wandered on the streets of Bhubaneswar, our first halt, we spotted a huge election meeting. The public address system continuously blared that 'India's son, India's pride, Rajiv Gandhi would arrive soon.' Which he did, to the loud cheers of the not-so-impressive crowd. We sat on a bench for a while before making our way back to the hotel; we had to board the late night train to Vijayawada. Rajiv Gandhi continued to drone in the background.

I awoke to a noisy and agitated commotion in the morning. The familiar movement of the train's wheels was missing.

My husband told me, "Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated." Our co-passengers looked pale and frightened.

Yet, I could not believe my husband. After all, we had just heard him campaigning the previous night.

The train began to move at a snail's pace. After half-an-hour or so, we crawled into Vishakapatnam. We had no idea when the train would start again. Everyone was scared to step out, so we had no news of the outside world.

Four more trains crept into the station.

Time continued to tick by and, soon, we were all battling hunger pangs. But, except for some bananas, there was nothing available at the station. Some of the more daring passengers finally stepped out of the station. They came back with the news that the city had shut down; that there was splintered glass on all the roads… This only made us even more frightened. Nobody spoke of the assassination; we were only concerned about our own comfort and safety.

Meanwhile, Vishakapatnam sweltered in the summer heat. We had run out of food and water and the heat sapped us of our remaining energy. After crying for water for some time, most of the children in the train dozed off.

By afternoon, the power in the train went off. Every once in a while, there would rumours of mobs attacking the trains, leading to a lot of panic. Fortunately, nothing like that happened.

The evening came with its own horrors. Hundreds of people from five trains answering the calls of nature the entire day meant the station now had more flies than human beings. Despite the heat, we were compelled to down the shutters, unable to bear either the smell or the sight.

By late evening, without announcement or warning, the Chennai-bound Coromandel Express slowly started moving. We jumped onto the moving train. Hour after hour, the train inched forward until we finally reached Chennai the next morning.

I can never forget the sight I saw then. The station seemed like a graveyard; scary and silent. The only difference were the hundreds of people sitting quietly on the platforms. Even the children were silent. The platforms were packed; not one more person would have been able to squeeze in.

I wondered why the passengers -- the delayed trains had started arriving since early morning -- preferred to sit on the platform than venture out. When we finally managed to reach the exit, we understood the reason.

The area outside the station was littered with broken bottles and burnt papers; it looked like a war zone. The only living beings in sight were a couple of stray dogs.

By eight am, however, a couple of private vehicles arrived. That gave us the courage to venture into the deserted road where we sat on our suitcases and waited. Half-an-hour later, a few cycle rickshaws made an appearance. One of them, after warning us of the possible consequences, agreed to take us to a nearby hotel.

The road continued to remain deserted. This only increased our fear; even our driver kept throwing frightened glances over his shoulder. Not a single hotel near the station was open. Finally, we spotted an autorickshaw and asked him if he would take us to Nungambakkom, where one of our friends lived. He agreed, but we had to shell out a fortune for the favour.

We reached our destination safely. The journey had taken us half an hour, during which we did not spot a single human being or vehicle on the road. Two days had passed since the assassination, but the people of Chennai were still too terrified to venture out.

It proved impossible to get train tickets to Cochin so, two days later, we booked ourselves on the now-extinct Vayudoot airlines. As we landed at Cochin airport, I heaved a sigh of relief. We were finally home; we were safe.

The intervening 11 years have not been able to blur Shobha Warrier's memory of her horrific journey.

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

Tell us what you think of this diary

      Write a Diary!