s 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays t

India’s steam train heritage still brings out hoards of people. In Delhi, from babes in arms to ancient one-time signalmen, last week they literally piled onto the tracks where they grappled with television cameras from at least four broadcast stations. In a challenge to every health and safety regulation ever to fill 100 bound files in the archives of Brussels, people tumbled from the green plastic grass and red carpet onto the rails without obstruction.

The Heritage Parade of Steam Locomotives celebrated the end of Railway Heritage Month. Shri Lalu Prasad, the Honourable Minister for Railways, was the Most Distinguished Guest. Second was Sir Mark Tully, the former BBC Delhi correspondent and Vice-President of the Indian Railway Society (IRS). Mark is a guru in his own right.

After most of 40 years in India (and indeed he was born in Calcutta where his father was then stationed), he is a kind of Grand Old Man, regarded with approximately equal emotions of awe and affection appropriate to his Saddhu-like status. Being seen with him attracts more attention than a formal promenade with Tony Blair would.

This is not exaggeration. When Sir Mark once walked up the steps of Government House in Delhi with our Honourable PM, the crowd were in raptures but it wasn’t Tony Blair who had caught their attention. They were shouting in Hindi for Mark Tully.

There are several other dignitaries present: the Mayor of Delhi, members of the Railway Board, the President of the IRS and a whole row of very smart and important looking people. They are seated on the platform in beautifully presented upholstered chairs covered in white and set upon plastic grass. On the opposite platform, a whole tableau of Indian history is taking place with children waving colourful flags and an historical account of Indian railways in full swing as men run up and down behind boards bearing the trains moving.

No one is paying very much attention. In spite of the valuable collection of not just VIPs but VVIPs and the war on terror, security is conspicuously absent bar the presence of a delightful chocolate brown Labrador led by a soldier along the seating, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

It is very Indian that into this pageant the normal scheduled train, its 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays th

e Honourable Minister for Railways, was the Most Distinguished Guest. Second was Sir Mark Tully, the former BBC Delhi correspondent and Vice-President of the Indian Railway Society (IRS). Mark is a guru in his own right.

After most of 40 years in India (and indeed he was born in Calcutta where his father was then stationed), he is a kind of Grand Old Man, regarded with approximately equal emotions of awe and affection appropriate to his Saddhu-like status. Being seen with him attracts more attention than a formal promenade with Tony Blair would.

This is not exaggeration. When Sir Mark once walked up the steps of Government House in Delhi with our Honourable PM, the crowd were in raptures but it wasn’t Tony Blair who had caught their attention. They were shouting in Hindi for Mark Tully.

There are several other dignitaries present: the Mayor of Delhi, members of the Railway Board, the President of the IRS and a whole row of very smart and important looking people. They are seated on the platform in beautifully presented upholstered chairs covered in white and set upon plastic grass. On the opposite platform, a whole tableau of Indian history is taking place with children waving colourful flags and an historical account of Indian railways in full swing as men run up and down behind boards bearing the trains moving.

No one is paying very much attention. In spite of the valuable collection of not just VIPs but VVIPs and the war on terror, security is conspicuously absent bar the presence of a delightful chocolate brown Labrador led by a soldier along the seating, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

It is very Indian that into this pageant the normal scheduled train, its 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays t

t exaggeration. When Sir Mark once walked up the steps of Government House in Delhi with our Honourable PM, the crowd were in raptures but it wasn’t Tony Blair who had caught their attention. They were shouting in Hindi for Mark Tully.

There are several other dignitaries present: the Mayor of Delhi, members of the Railway Board, the President of the IRS and a whole row of very smart and important looking people. They are seated on the platform in beautifully presented upholstered chairs covered in white and set upon plastic grass. On the opposite platform, a whole tableau of Indian history is taking place with children waving colourful flags and an historical account of Indian railways in full swing as men run up and down behind boards bearing the trains moving.

No one is paying very much attention. In spite of the valuable collection of not just VIPs but VVIPs and the war on terror, security is conspicuously absent bar the presence of a delightful chocolate brown Labrador led by a soldier along the seating, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

It is very Indian that into this pageant the normal scheduled train, its 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays t

le tableau of Indian history is taking place with children waving colourful flags and an historical account of Indian railways in full swing as men run up and down behind boards bearing the trains moving.

No one is paying very much attention. In spite of the valuable collection of not just VIPs but VVIPs and the war on terror, security is conspicuously absent bar the presence of a delightful chocolate brown Labrador led by a soldier along the seating, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

It is very Indian that into this pageant the normal scheduled train, its 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays t

s 24 battered green and cream bogeys so familiar to the 13 million people who travel on Indian railways every day, disgorges its passengers. In fact not once but twice, passenger cargo is offloaded into the melee. People are moved towards the exit, not pleased to be denied the occasion. Street theatre like this is part of Delhi life and commands an instant audience.

Now coolies tidy the trailing edges adorning the front line of comfortable settees designated Railway Board. The compere seeks silence in various languages. “Please sit down everyone.” No one pays the slightest attention. Someone screams gutturally into a microphone, part in Hindi, alternated with regular “hello, hello, hello, testing, testing, testing” and loads of reverberating feedback.

The flowers and water bottles are now in place for the VVIPs who are presumably more than merely VI. Even the Railway Board have not so far been treated to such magnificence. Here comes the sniffer dog again, obediently sniffing along our feet. An Argentinean gentleman introduces himself and his wife and makes interested conversation. He is curious to know what a white west-European female is doing here.

The greeting party is beginning to assemble, guarded by soldiers and sundry hangers-on. Mark arrives looking very dapper in lemon shirt and burgundy herringbone waistcoat. Suddenly there is total silence. The Minister welcomes everyone; the cameras capture the moment from the middle of the tracks and like media everywhere in the world, practically trample each other to death in their determination to get the best shot. There are babies crying, children running up and down the VIP chairs and clearly many people who are not either media or guests here but who have found their way in without obstacle.

The bottom of a female soldier is literally in my face. A settee is relocated to make room for the broadcasting fray and the bottom shifts a few inches but ever increasing numbers of media take to the tracks although whether deliberately or by force of gravity is difficult to say.

We are now being roped in, literally. I am not altogether sure whether this is to keep us away from mauling Mark Tully or from trying to get a free ride on the Fairy Queen, the oldest locomotive still track-worthy, built in 1855 in Leeds, and the pride of the Indian Railway Society.

This piece de resistence (my respects to cross-cultural relationships) chuk-chuks along the platform in its green and gold livery, at once dignified and friendly. Brightly dressed children waving flags and blowing on plastic whistles add to the sense that we have all slipped back in time to a more romantic, less threatening era when children could be children and railways were elegant, grand and somehow symbolic of all that was best in the newly industrialised world of the mid-19th cent