Having spent much of her childhood on trains, Aarthi Parthasarthy—a self-proclaimed “railway kid”—reflects on her family’s favourite stations for tasty food, her father’s knowledge of the intricate catering system, and just how much train food has changed since she was little.
Appa is a railway man. That’s what he still calls himself, some 15 years after retirement. I guess that makes me a railway kid, which is an age-agnostic moniker.
Since we moved with his postings and travelled a lot across India, much of my childhood was spent in trains, at train stations, on platforms, in waiting rooms, Railway colonies, Railway houses, with Railway families. Every break—summer, winter, a long weekend—we were off somewhere. Over a conservative estimate of 400 train journeys as a family, we’ve been to almost every state in the country, falling just two short—Tripura and Mizoram. If we were to count individual and work trips, the count would amount to over a thousand.
But now, I rarely take the train. Mostly on trips to and from Chennai for family gatherings, and Appa is the one who books my tickets, as he does for all members of our extended family. In the days leading up to the journey, his reminders come alongside those from IRCTC (Indian Railway Catering and Tourism Corporation). He tells me exactly when my train is, when to leave the house for the station, which platform the train will depart from, which coach I’m seated in, whether my seat is window, aisle or (gasp) middle. Even the distance between the engine and my coach, though now the Railways provide all the information in your booking.
“And I have booked the veg meal for you. Idli-vada breakfast, and tea/coffee. It’s quite good,” he adds, the day before the journey. Those sentences, with their promise of a meal alongside a moving landscape, always motivated me to make my train on time.
Trains are a great metaphor for life itself. You and some co-travellers—some chosen, some random—hurtling through time and space, trying to get somewhere. And along the way, there’s food. Travelling makes you hungry. Your body is wandering, as is your mind, and so you find yourself ravenous, suddenly yet constantly.
When we travelled by train as a family, it entailed quite the preparation, food-wise. We would plan the ‘food bag’, and this meant selecting items that would keep well, were versatile, and non-messy. Parathas with chutney, curd, pickle, or even jam; idlis or dosas smeared with milagai podi and ghee were tasty, plus hassle-free; curd-rice would always heal an upset stomach. Of course, the packet with the curd had to be kept near the AC vent, right on top, to ensure it doesn’t spoil through the longer journeys. Deep-fried snacks—murukkus, banana chips, ribbon pakodas—had to be tightly-sealed, and rationed through the journey, munched on while reading a book, or listening to music on a Walkman, or both.
There was always activity around food in the compartment, as families from different cultures moved effortlessly from meal time to snack time to meal time again. Appreciative, sometimes jealous, glances would be exchanged as families unpacked their meals and the smells of different spices and oils circulated within the compartment. Gujarati families would bring lots of mathris, sev, packed theplas with garlic chutney, and their own masala mix to add to endless supplies of chai. Bengali families would carry muri, nimki, and packed malpuas. Maharastrians, in the summer, would ferry cartons of Alphonso mangoes to wherever they were going. In fact, one could be assured that the mangoes were the sole motivation of travelling by train; the sweet, fruity aroma of ripening mangoes would hang heavy from departure to arrival.
Maharastrians, in the summer, would ferry cartons of Alphonso mangoes to wherever they were going. In fact, one could be assured that the mangoes were the sole motivation of travelling by train; the sweet, fruity aroma of ripening mangoes would hang heavy from departure to arrival.
On some long-distance journeys, we would avail the option of ordering meals en route. During last-minute journeys or trips sandwiched between busy schedules, these poorly seasoned yet warm meals were life-saving. Pantry waiters would walk from coach to coach with a small wad of torn notebook papers and a pen, taking orders for the upcoming meal—always a standard, set fare of roti meals, rice meals, veg pulao, egg biryani, or some such.
Track-ing the History of Railway Dining
As we would eat and look out the window of a speeding train, my avid historian father would educate us about the history of trains—stories about the first passenger railway line in India between Bombay (Bori Bunder) and Thane in 1853, the letter that led to toilets being installed in Indian trains, gauges and how they work, how the signalling system functions, and, of course, food on trains.
This would go back to the 1800s, when the British set up the Indian Railways, to facilitate their ‘trade’ in India: for easier movement of valuable resources to ports and out of the country, and to distribute British goods to their troops, businesses, and employees. The first proposal to build the rail network was floated in 1832, and the first line built in Madras (now Chennai) in 1835, for goods trains. Food on trains was made possible with the fast-growing network of tracks and trains across the country.
At first, food was served only at refreshment rooms on platforms, not on the trains. Stations would receive their orders via telegraph or phone from the previous station, and times for halts would depend on how quickly or slowly passengers finished their meals.
As the railway network grew and more people took the train, larger base kitchens were set up at stations along the early lines constructed around Bombay, Calcutta, and Madras. Pantry cars were introduced on the trains—here, food from the kitchen was loaded onto the train, to be able to serve meals en route.
These base kitchens were spaces on platforms and at stops, tasked with cooking, storing, and dispatching meals to a fixed number of trains passing by, which would change daily. At the time in the late 1800s and the early 1900s, these meals were offered only to the wealthy travelling by ‘first’ and ‘second’ class compartments of the train, while passengers in ‘third’ and ‘fourth’ class would have to make their own arrangements. The ‘third’-class coaches had only wooden benches and the ‘fourth’-class coaches, which ran briefly, were devoid of fittings and facilities, including toilets or water.
In 1903, dining or restaurant cars were introduced into the anatomy of the train, and the food was provided by British establishments like Spencer and Company. In 1915, the Bengal-Nagpur Railway (presently South Eastern Railway) introduced departmental catering, centralising the process across different local vendors and establishments.
Dining cars were gradually discontinued from most trains over the years as they proved to be unfeasible at scale, both in terms of operations and safety. “They were difficult to maintain, took up space, needed additional storage, and raised safety concerns. And the high demand for trains—this is before planes became cheaper and more popular, of course—led to them being replaced with more passenger coaches,” said Appa. Dining cars now exist mainly on luxury trains like the famous Palace on Wheels in Rajasthan and the Golden Chariot in south India.
The only passenger train with a dining car in the present day is the Deccan Queen, which journeys from Mumbai to Pune. There was an attempt to discontinue it during the pandemic years. However, after much citizen uproar, not only did it return, but got a considerable upgrade including a modular kitchen, launched in 2022.
How Food Journeys Through Trains
Trains and base kitchens had quite a significant role to play in the migration of different foods across India. Right when trains were introduced, fresh eggs, milk, and fish could be carried into the new industrial towns. Tea was introduced to India, both as a product and a habit, by the British through the Indian Railways—free samples of British tea were distributed at the Calcutta station in the early 1900s. But it gained popularity after the Great Depression of 1929, when tea-company owners in Assam were producing much more than what they could export. Moreover, Indians began to adapt the recipe, brewing it with milk, and a lot of sugar.
With the expansion of the railway network, and the addition of many more trains, it followed that when people moved, recipes, dishes, and entire cultures moved with them. Cooks hired at these base kitchens were often migrants, and would also learn recipes of different dishes along the way. Idli-vada-upma was served on south-bound trains, so the passengers starting in north India got to try them; parathas were served on trains leaving north India, and south Indians would eat them during their journeys. Different snacks like samosas, vadas, jhalmuri, bhelpuri, started moving with vendors to neighbouring states.
Appa recounted that when they were first introduced, some stations’ base kitchens became quite renowned for their food—Surat, Ratlam, and Trivandrum being some examples that he remembers, with authentic, tasty, and, most importantly, affordable food. Especially the food at Trivandrum Railway Station, where the lunch was said to be similar to a marriage hall feast. In the 1970s and 80s, it was the only place where raw (white) rice was available in Trivandrum. So all out-of-towners, including my father, would go there for their meals, especially for his thayyir-sadam (white rice with curd) with pickle.
The scale and operations of a base kitchen are not unlike those of a large restaurant or even the langar at the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Although they vary based on the station and number of trains they need to supply meals to, the key processes are consistent. Large volumes of ingredients are brought in, as cooks prepare for and make hundreds to thousands of meals throughout the day, which are then packed and stored. For example, the Trivandrum base kitchen provides meals for not only local passengers and railway staff on the platform, but also thousands of inter-state travellers, including those on the daily Vande Bharat and the Rajdhani trains, which run three times a week.
In the 1970s and 80s, it was the only place where raw (white) rice was available in Trivandrum. So all out-of-towners, including my father, would go there for their meals, especially for his thayyir-sadam (white rice with curd) and pickle.
The menus for these and other long-distance trains are fixed, with services managed by contractors appointed by IRCTC. The other menus for other trains or the station dining room are often designed around the bulk orders of that day, with some local variations. For example, idli-vada-upma is now the de facto breakfast package across south India, because of the ease of preparation, although not without occasional complaints. However, at times, at the dining room in the station, you may find kadala curry (black chickpeas) with the idli, or even local red rice for lunch.
Platforming Local Cuisine
Sometimes, discovering a great piece of a local cuisine builds a ritual. My family and I would travel from Bombay to Madras for vacations quite often in the 1990s. Guntakal, in Andhra Pradesh, was a stop on the Bombay-Chennai Mail, and the masala dosa available at one particular stall on the station platform was outstanding—freshly made, crisp at the edges, soft in the middle, with piping hot masala and perfectly spiced chutneys. We would talk about it with great enthusiasm, although I now suspect Amma didn’t fully appreciate that much praise being showered on someone else’s dosa.
We would plan dinner around that stop—20 minutes long—as it was in the evening. My father and brother would disembark and get hot masala dosas with generous heaps of coconut chutney for the entire family. As the train left the station, there would always be a wistful discussion about whether we should have gotten more, how many more, and to remember to do so on the way back or next time.
We would also sometimes buy from individual hawkers, who board at certain stations, walk through the train selling very specific items—chai, freshly cooked snacks like samosas, or packets of chips, sometimes even books and magazines. One would hear the vendor from a distance, and begin decoding what is being said: “Wait, what? What are the items he’s listing? Or is that second line a description?”, then one smells the food, and lastly sees it. At this point one decides—is there interest? Should one show it? How much time does the vendor have? How much does the item in question cost? Sometimes the vendors would burst right through the compartment and would have to be chased down to make a purchase.
Appa explained that the official system requires a licence to sell food, whether on the platform or on the train itself. These licences are issued by the IRCTC, and the vendors and their operations are subject to a regular set of hygiene and safety checks, similar to those of base kitchens. The restaurants and vendors on the platform are required to obtain these licences and operate according to the protocol. However, the mobile hawkers often figure interesting and unofficial ways, according to my father, of operating, ranging from boarding the train before the official stop, or bribing officials, or supplying food to vendors with licences for a cut. In some cases, they would not have licences at all—which would explain why they were always in a hurry.
This year, I took my first train journey in four years on the Vande Bharat, from Bengaluru to Chennai and back. It’s been a long way from spending every holiday chugging away on a train, and now the train’s inner workings no longer seem second nature to me. There were fewer stalls on the platform, fewer vendors on the move.
Once I boarded and settled down, I found that a single pantry waiter takes care of everything once the train starts, using his phone for notes. A newspaper was handed to me, after which came chai—a packaged premix with powdered chai, milk, and spices (just add hot water!). It’s to make sure that every cup of chai tastes exactly the same as the last, a far cry from how different in colour, flavour, and price cups of chai would be across a typical route, even a decade ago.
A newspaper was handed to me, after which came chai—a packaged premix with powdered chai, milk, and spices (just add hot water!). It’s to make sure that every cup of chai tastes exactly the same as the last, a far cry from how different in colour, flavour, and price cups of chai would be across a typical route, even a decade ago.
Later, as booked, the breakfast arrived: idli-vada, served with fresh peanut-coconut chutney, hot vegetable sambar, and rava kesari. The idlis weren’t particularly soft, and the vada wasn’t crisp; everything tasted fine, and was probably made better by the excellent view outside. Then came the snacks, all in packages—chips, chikki, biscuits, a juice box. Everything was sanitised and efficient. So what was missing?
Nostalgia isn’t rational, since it often paints over the negatives with a broad brush. And the negatives are very real and are too many—the scrutiny of social media has brought up several incidents around train food, captured on camera. These range from adulteration of milk, poor quality of water, packaging, hygiene and handling issues among others. We all know that some kind of standardisation helps address these problems, which is what the IRCTC and the Railways have attempted to do in the recent past. But in looking for suppliers who can ensure a certain compliance and scale, many local vendors and hawkers find themselves pushed further to the margins, as larger establishments and corporations rush in to fill those spaces.
Instead of the discovery of that masala dosa on the platform, I can have a Dominos pizza delivered right to my seat, with possibly a greater assurance of quality and cleanliness. I guess that’s progress?
Aarthi Parthasarathy is a Bengaluru-based filmmaker and writer. She co-founded Falana Films and Kadak Collective.
Thanks to Parthasarathy Srinivasan, Aarthi’s father, whose intricate knowledge of the Indian Railways informed much of this piece.
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