Over the Chhattisgarh plains, the narrow meter-gauge line of railway formed the connecting link with the outside world, the world of motor cars, of aviation and of telephone. Glistening like a steel ribbon ran the line. It passed by little tile-roofed villages, each clustering around its temple, brown and grey villages and remote settlements, where a sandy unpaved street traversed between the fields of rice until it lost itself in the great plain. Habitations only joined to one another by a narrow track meandering through the corn fields, passing around stony hills and running across forests until it would hit a obstruction in the form of a stream.
Often in dark the villages seemed like cluster of bulbs all floating in the air, the appearance produced by numerous lanterns which stood hanging outside their homes keeping the darkness and evil spirits at bay.
The train jogged on passing by Araku, Jaygarh and other little halts, where no one could have possibly got in or out since first the line was laid. These stations had one thing common- a worn out, haggard looking old man who was the station master, the ticket checker, the announcer, the porter who seemed to have no hassles about his work at all. Mostly dogs littered on the platform and slept on the benches made for men. The taps were dropless and ticket counters looked like no ticket had ever passed between their grills. A lone haggard-looking man smoked from chillam.
Such were the stations, mere islands in a sea of green, each one a mere carbon copy of another. I waited for my designated station to come by. My earlier posting at Jagdalpur had not been very daunting but this one at 200 miles further interior in the heartland of naxal activity would surely be nerve wrecking.
It was approaching twilight now. The faces of all the police officers who had been slain by the red brigade flashed in my mind. But I would not give up, I decided. I had always enjoyed adversity and this would be no different. I took a swig from my hip flask.
