A Railway Station
A railway station is one of the invariables of modern civilization. It is a place, which aids commuters to detrain as well as entrain. Every railway station is provided with a time-chart for the arrival and departure of trains, personnel of dignitaries ranging from the stationmaster, who restrains the work of the station; to the servile porters who succour passengers with their paraphernalia. Railway stations diverge in size and importance, some like Dhaka or Chittagong, or any of the bigger cities provided with various platforms, some like Chandpur or Laksam having a single platform. The bigger stations have waiting rooms, stationmaster’s office, sundry booing-offices, book-stalls, stationery shops; which cater for the requisites of all exemplars of people. The smaller stations perhaps stand passengers in good stead by providing them with a scrupulously secluded, placid, somewhat deserted and even soporific picturesque atmosphere. But with the arrival of a train, the station abruptly bursts into life—passengers donning motleys rush about in quest of a commodious compartment; porters hurry toting onuses of luggage; hawkers shout their wares in various tones and dispositions – and through all these the functionaries of the railway – the station-master, the ticket-checkers, the guards, the points men – move about in the performance of their concern –- a cosmopolitan congregation, indeed. And then the train steams off, and the station once more relapses into somnolence. Apart from the pragmatic services, a railway station exercises a bizarre incantation on all of us, especially to the folk who contemplate with wide-eyed stupor as a railway engine puffs its way to the station, belching reek and fire like a primeval monster of legendary days; and to the grown-up people—particularly in the countryside—who convene on the platform to accost the incoming or see off outgoing passengers. De facto, despite being a pivotal place of hustle and bustle it is the symbol and embodiment of up-to-the-minute neoteric life.
A railway station is one of the invariables of modern civilization. It is a place, which aids commuters to detrain as well as entrain. Every railway station is provided with a time-chart for the arrival and departure of trains, personnel of dignitaries ranging from the stationmaster, who restrains the work of the station; to the servile porters who succour passengers with their paraphernalia. Railway stations diverge in size and importance, some like Dhaka or Chittagong, or any of the bigger cities provided with various platforms, some like Chandpur or Laksam having a single platform. The bigger stations have waiting rooms, stationmaster’s office, sundry booing-offices, book-stalls, stationery shops; which cater for the requisites of all exemplars of people. The smaller stations perhaps stand passengers in good stead by providing them with a scrupulously secluded, placid, somewhat deserted and even soporific picturesque atmosphere. But with the arrival of a train, the station abruptly bursts into life—passengers donning motleys rush about in quest of a commodious compartment; porters hurry toting onuses of luggage; hawkers shout their wares in various tones and dispositions – and through all these the functionaries of the railway – the station-master, the ticket-checkers, the guards, the points men – move about in the performance of their concern –- a cosmopolitan congregation, indeed. And then the train steams off, and the station once more relapses into somnolence. Apart from the pragmatic services, a railway station exercises a bizarre incantation on all of us, especially to the folk who contemplate with wide-eyed stupor as a railway engine puffs its way to the station, belching reek and fire like a primeval monster of legendary days; and to the grown-up people—particularly in the countryside—who convene on the platform to accost the incoming or see off outgoing passengers. De facto, despite being a pivotal place of hustle and bustle it is the symbol and embodiment of up-to-the-minute neoteric life.