Carrying a medium-sized holdall and a zipped wallet, my son and I set out smack dab at 3 pm for Madras Central railway station by electric train after locking our house at Nanganallur. No auto or even a jutka—a two-wheeled, horse drawn cart common there—anywhere in sight during those days of the mid-1970s, we scurried to Pazhavanthangal railway station.
Taking tickets to Park station, we boarded an electric train that ran swimmingly up to Saidapet and halted. A lull prevailed on the platform with the commuters clueless about further movement of the train. Each passing moment making us uneasy we detrained, scampered out of the station, reached the auto-rickshaw stand at the entrance and got into an auto in a trice. It was 4.15 pm. Twigging our instancy to get to Central, the auto driver drove at full pelt along Mount Road. The run was smooth and at a rate of knots till the vehicle touched Teynampet, a place halfway to Central where all at once the vehicle turned erratic and began moving fitfully. The auto ground to a halt with its engine conking out. All efforts by the driver to troubleshoot the fault went in vain. We had to reach Central within half an hour.
Feeling we would miss the express train in which we had reserved our accommodation for the long journey to Delhi, we quit the auto and stood on the roadside looking for a city-bound hack.
Each ticking moment kept us dangling. Scarcely within a minute, luck smiled upon us with a vacant taxi running towards the city coming in sight. We hailed it to stop and got into it in a jiff. As we apprised the man on the steering of our plight, he comprehended our urgency quickly, drove the cab hell for leather but very safe across the heart of the metro—free those days from the dense traffic of the present—and dropped us at Central. There was barely a minute left for the train to trundle off. Tipping the chauffeur a tenner besides the meter charge, we thanked him heartily and loped into the station.
To our good luck, the Grand Trunk Express was at a platform right in front of us. It was about to chug off given the guard was whistling its start. We sprang into one of the rearmost coaches and soon elbowed our way and reached our seats in another bogey away from where we were. Thanking almighty I heaved an alto-relievo as did my son Suresh. Memories of the ordeal we experienced that day despite having started well in time and resorting to a drive at breakneck speed across the city en route have stayed with me for years without fading away.