It was many years, probably decades ago, that I boarded the train to Fort Sandeman. I do not remember the reason for taking this journey, but from what I recall, it was the desire to reach the highest point of the railway system that had been laid by the British in the colonial era.
It was not known what was the highest point in the entire subcontinent but Kanmehterzai was surely the highest point in the railways system that Pakistan inherited.
It was not even called Zhob but by the name that it was founded by -- Fort Sandeman. Like many colonialists, Robert Sandeman too carried a legendary tag of being great at brokering deals, bringing peace and probably some prosperity to the unknown undulating straddling South and Central Asia.
He carried a godfather-like image to the native chiefs coming to grips with a system of governance that was as foreign as it was technologically very different. Needless to say, the primary reason for laying the railway system was the growing fear of the expanding Czarist Empire and the then Soviet Empire. It was also the prospects of mining ore used in making munitions.
In those faraway mountains and valleys the great powers were testing each other out and in the process the natives both gained and suffered.
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It was the narrow gauge -- broad and metre was the other two gauges used in the subcontinent -- and it had a rolling stock and power that was fascinatingly tiny and unassuming for the miniature friendliness of its size. It was small and almost petite, a recall to the toy trains I got to see, at times, in those distant days of childhood. The broad gauge was bigger and menacing, in comparison, its metre gauge all was benign and could be handled and cuddled, rather than be crushed by its immensity.
And the journey started with very few passengers, and nearly all ticket-less; I waited for the train to pick up speed like the iron monsters did while clanking at the rail track joints, indicating ferocity of increasing pace, but it hardly gathered any pace despite making honest efforts, meandering through its path with the pace of amiability.
After the initial disappointment at the slow speed, it was resignation that turned me to seek out the scene through the carriage windows to behold a sight that was magnificent and was not to be replicated in the following journeys, home and abroad.
And the railway stations were the cutest. Small in size, mud-plastered with sun rooms, even the shed and the rooms appeared to have lower ceilings and roofs. Of course, it was not so but seemed so and the recall was again to dolls houses that were bought and ripped apart in the years of growing up with girl cousins.
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The signaling system was too small in scale and size and it seemed that one was visiting a fantasy land with everything midgeted. And the train chugged along laboriously, wanting to rather pace but failing to do so, slowly and ever so slowly that I could get down, walk along it, then board again without making an effort to even break into a run.
Only when there was a downward gradient did the train gather speed and that too just a little, otherwise it wound through the narrow river valley with signs of road by its side chugging upwards, puffing and heaving up the gradient, which at times was steep.
As we reached Kanmehtarzai it started to drizzle. We were told that it rained there all the time. We were fearful that the train would slip off the track but were consoled that since the train almost crawled we would be able to jump off it well in time.
The mountains and hills in the foreground were full of many hues -- it looked barren from the distance but on closer inspection, the rough cuts and edges held the secret of shades that were red to blue to orange to rust to patchwork of hazy green.
As the immensity of the horizon unlocked, an amazing array of terrain and colours played hide and seek with the sunlight and melted from one to the other. From Kanmehterzai to Fort Sandeman it was slightly downhill but the train took its guarded approach and did not screech to a halt at any time.
Fort Sandeman, too, was a lovely barrack-like structure that doubled as a small fortress.
We were told that beyond the scraggy mountains, some of which were intimidating, lay Bannu to be accessed from the other side, another province, but the dim sunlight and damping air and eerie isolation foretold that one had reached the end of the journey. The equipment in the station was solidly a century old, and it reaffirmed a journey into the past with all the tales and legends from that time conjuring up as backdrop.
Luckily, the track and the system worked till then and the almost empty train was too fantastical to be an actual trip.