Stepping out of the Mambalam suburban station in Chennai, I could see the long serpentine queue taking a curve to creep into the adjacent lane. Sunrise is definitely a couple of hours away. The sleepy members, some crawling on the roads and some bundled up within blankets, grudgingly make way for the morning walkers. The long wait is not for any special darshan of their favourite deity; but for a tatkal train ticket at the nearby reservation counter. The crowd swells over the weekends and on public holidays even as onlookers scratch their heads as to why these poor souls choose to meditate all through the night under the open skies instead of opting for online reservation.
As in any other sphere of life, technology has had its impact on the railway network, too. It has revolutionised ticketing and brought it on our doorsteps. Facilitating smooth transactions, it is the most hassle-free service to come out of the railways’ kitty. No more paperwork or heckling outside noisy, dingy counters. And for those who pack up at the last minute, there is the tatkal bonanza, now with the creamy topping of the premium tatkal scheme.
But this is not just about the boon; but about the boon turning bane. If experience is the best teacher, this teacher of mine has never failed to teach me a bitter lesson every time I tried my luck with the online tatkal reservation. “Experience the new lightweight version of website during Tatkal hours” says the IRCTC portal. But the enticing slogan leaves even the heavyweight, die-hard and aspiring passengers perspiring in anguish as they plough their way to the website that refuses to open.
One moment it relents and you ride jubilantly to frantically key in your details and there it says 289 tickets are available. Jam into your keyboard raising a toast to your stars and “kaput” it goes. Not to lose heart or hope, the persistent, prospective passenger prods on. After all, 289 tickets are available. Not to worry. All one needs is just a single passage. The next moment you punch heavily on the keyboard and alas the portal says in a penitent mood “Sorry. Services on this site are temporarily suspended”. No time to brood. Try again. Luck by your side, the portal opens instantly. Key in the details automatically. You know them by heart already. And what do you stare at in horror? Waitlist 43. All the 289 tickets vanish in a minute.
Surely, there must be a method behind this magic that eludes you and me. The magic is not confined to tatkal tickets. Even the regular ones are hard to get during holiday seasons—online or offline—even if you happen to be the earliest bird. That leaves the common man stranded on the sidelines, waving out to the fortunate few who make it to the wonder on wheels. Who said the railways are for the common man?