The ungainly, uniform steel trunks, standard-issue for armed forces personnel below officer rank, were a mainstay of the Indian railway station, doubling as sofas, beds, safe deposit boxes and bastions of tradition.

New Delhi: The Union home ministry plans on replacing the ubiquitous government-issue steel and alloy trunks provided to paramilitary personnel below officer rank to transport their personal effects on myriad deployments around the country with modern trolley-propelled polycarbonate suitcases.

According to recent news reports, the ministry has instituted a committee that includes the Bureau of Indian Standards, Bureau of Police Research and Development and the Northern Textile Research Association, amongst others, to design a contemporary alternative to these omnipresent trunks. The committee is presently framing specifications for these prospective substitutes, by determining their weight, capaciousness, durability and cost before issuing them to other ranks (ORs) in the individual Central Para Military Forces (CPMF).

And though diverse trolley suitcases were presently available in some paramilitary canteens, the majority of CPMF jawans still preferred the no-nonsense, cumbersome black or off-white trunks, as they were hardy, commodious and utterly dependable. But above all else, these trunks were, for them, a familiar and reassuring piece of luggage, directly acquainted with generations of peripatetic jawans who literally lived out of them for their entire service spans.

The only difference, however, between these trunks, if it could at all be called that, was the respective jawan’s name and serial number painted on each of their sides, in contrasting black or white. And, in the event of any jawan’s death in the line of duty, the trademark trunk containing his belongings was handed over to his family as part of a long-established and solemn tradition.

“Only steel trunks were suitable for CPMF personnel to transport their effects to rough and environmentally hostile terrain, in which many of them are routinely employed,” said Gurbachan Jagat, former director general of the Border Security Force (BSF). Hence, replacing trunks with trolley suitcases, he stated, would not really be a practical measure for many jawans, as they would be unable to endure endless wear and tear.

But, on a nostalgic note he added that even gradually phasing out trunks, however ungainly they might be, would be an ‘emotional wrench’, as they had been synonymous with paramilitary jawans for decades.

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Steel trunks or ‘sandooks’ were not only associated with the paramilitaries, but also with soldiers, including officers, in addition to a wide cross-section of Indians, rich and poor, till they were gradually replaced for the latter by upmarket trolley bags. But piles of trunks, stacked atop each other were, till recently, a common sight at all rail stations across the country, atop which were perched either uniformed jawans and policemen or women, children and the elderly in various poses of repose, as they patiently waited to board their trains.

For all such people, their padlocked trunks were their pride, exuding a palpable sense of comforting solidity, egalitarianism and reliability. Besides, these steel containers were difficult, if not impossible to steal and, thankfully there was no competition or one-upmanship amongst trunk-owners – unlike in trendy trolley bag possessors – as all were boringly uniform in design and form. The only distinguishing feature, in some instances, was the unexceptional lettering on them, identifying their owners.

Gaggles of excited children and teenagers returning by rail to and from their boarding schools at least twice each year, too were easily identifiable by their inconspicuous trunks, which each one of them jealously guarded, as if their lives depended on them.

“A trunk was not merely something to transport my effects during my growing-up years, but also the best storage place to hide my tuck from other classmates and rats,” said New Delhi businesswoman Rita Paul, who frequently travelled up and down to her school in Nanital nearly five decades ago. “All our existences in the school dorm,” she confessed, “centred round our trunks and the goodies stored in them.”

For military personnel, on the other hand, trunks were not merely a means to haul their belongings from one posting to another, but upon arrival, doubled variously as sofas, tables, shelves, storage places and, at a pinch, were even banded together, for use as beds.

Writing in The Hindu in May 2020, Shweta Warrier, an Indian Army officer’s daughter, declared that she slept on a wooden trunk bed for years and that in all her childhood photographs, their numerous trunks were all-pervasive, often ‘substituting for important bits of furniture’ in their many cantonment homes across India. So much so, that one of her ‘civilian friends’ was so enamoured by these trunks, that she even asked to be presented with some at her wedding.

Warrier goes on to state that her family even possessed a ‘God box’, the oldest of their trunks that had formerly belonged to her soldier father’s granduncle, who had fought in WW2 and contained religious artefacts. “We lived our lives in and out of trunks,” she nostalgically stated, adding that these sandooks remained a memorable legacy of times gone by, before they were sold after 26 years of incessant journeying.

But unable to sever ties completely with them, her family retained two trunks stuffed with knick-knacks outside the front door of their Bangalore house, complete with her father’s name, rank and serial number.

On a personal note, I too retain my black steel pre-independence trunk, which I inherited from my father and duly moved my spare belongings into when I journeyed to New Delhi to become a journalist in late 1979. It’s still with me, albeit nestling in a loft, but I have no intention whatsoever of getting rid of it; in time, I hope to bequeath it to some youngster who would appreciate it, and perhaps even put it to gainful use.

Meanwhile, the other ‘legacy luggage’ that has vanished almost completely are bistra-bunds, or hold-all’s, which symbiotically always accompanied trunks during rail travel. Made of robust canvas and roughly the size of an average-sized bed, these amazing luggage contraptions, peculiar only to South Asia, were just what their vernacular name suggests: a bedroll, but with cavernous pouches on either of its two ends, to haphazardly stuff in mounds of articles like pillows, shoes and other unbreakable paraphernalia.

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Once packed – always to capacity – its two inside flaps laced-up neatly in the centre, the entire bistra-bund was carefully rolled up and buckled in place with two long perforated leather belts, rendering it a round composite package with a leather handle for carrying.

As youngsters, we habitually endeavoured to tighten these belts to an extreme, which often resulted in one, or at times, both, snapping disastrously, accompanied by much mirth on our part, and parental scolding later. This mischief invariably resulted in a trip to the nearest mochi (cobbler) to hastily mend the rent belt, and less muscle thereafter, in re-tightening the hold-all and readying it for its onward journey alongside the ever-present trunk.

But the bistra-bund’s role did not just end there.

For, once aboard a train, with the trunk ensconced safely under the bunk or placed in the corridor for use as a seat, the opened hold-all was transformed into a comfortable bed, with all surrounding passengers looking on with tense anticipation as to what the bistra-bund’s deep insides would disgorge. In many instances, the onlookers were not disappointed, as like skilled magicians, many hold-all owners variously produced all manner of items like pajamas, bedroom slippers and, in some instances, even a dressing gown and a towel.

Paradoxically, the interconnected trunk and bistra-bund customarily came together upon the gamcha-bound head and the two arms and hands of red-shirted station coolies, who doubled as veritable human baggage carts, capable of effortlessly ferrying unbelievable loads up and down stairs and along interminably long platforms.

Renamed sahayaks recently – as the 17th century colonial term ‘coolie’ was deemed pejorative – and provided a new uniform, these resilient porters of yore, with their traditional gleaming brass armbands emblazoned with their licence numbers would, juggler-like, nimbly wind their way through teeming crowds with enormous loads to ensure that their patrons comfortably boarded their trains. In addition to trunks and hold-alls, many of these old time porters even lugged sundry items like clay surahis (water containers), pippas (large tins packed with wheat, rice and dal) and even baby cribs.

Still keen on switching to trolley pulled polycarbonate suitcases? Or is it a generational choice?