PodCastle

* Author : Varsha Dinesh
* Narrator : Suna Dasi
* Host : Summer Fletcher
* Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh
*
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PodCastle 661: The Engineer of the Undersea Railways is a PodCastle original.


Rated PG-13.
The Engineer of the Undersea Railway
By Varsha Dinesh
The undersea engineer Persis Makhanwala cut a solitary figure to all those who knew her. The gossip rags reeled in the wake of her spangled saris and perpetually bruised eyes, scrambling to dredge up old dark-eyed paramours and sad, sparkling scandals. They called her such epithets as Queen of the Undersea and Siren of the Rails, crowding to get a glimpse as she emerged from a pincered little car at Bombay’s Marine Drive. Cameras clicked; lights flashed. Chai vendors, journalists and spectators jostled.
As Persis glowered, a train’s whistle sounded. The underwater tunnel lit up. The arc of it glimmered like a diamond necklace, stretching as far as the eye could see, into the mists of the Arabian Sea. A roar went through the crowd. Persis stepped off the promenade and into the waves, disappearing into a carefully concealed elevator.
It was a historic moment.
Later that evening the Bombay-Fujairah Undersea Express would embark on its maiden journey, slithering through an underwater tunnel like a gleaming white dragon. The media would play three clips in an endless loop. An aerial shot of the train as a bright white line, suspended in a field of azure. A deep-sea tour of the pontoons that anchored the tunnel to the seafloor. And Persis herself, stiff and scowling by the engine, brow wrinkled in irritation at the crush of reporters.
“Persis, Persis,” the journalists cried. “Are you going to live on the train? What about your family? Are the rumors about your infertility true?”
It was the biggest gossip to rock the Bollywood channels this week. Persis Makhanwala’s long-time flame had left her one week before the culmination of her years of work with the Undersea Railway. They had been childless. It had been her fault.
The camera’s exploitative gaze dropped to her stomach. Persis turned her face, said nothing. In her head she had gone far away, already dreaming of her next project.

The Automatic Conductor raced through the compartments on silver pachinko wheels. Its mouth shredded train tickets and glowed crimson when it spoke. Its eyes were carved glass, glittering in the semi-dark, capable of seeing through fake travel-permits or suspicious baggage. Wherever it went, it brought with it the tinkle of old Bollywood tunes, Kishor Kumar and R.D. Burman filling the compartments with sweet songs of yore.
Persis had built it out of silver and gold, etching stories from the Panchatantra onto its chassis. In her permanent first-class cabin, there was never any space to sit, berths and floor invisible under mountains of gears and sensors, actuators and capacitors. She gestated the Conductor in the red heat of the engine, tinkering and tweaking, gauzy underwater seascapes passing them by as she worked. She rocked it to sleep on the locomotive’s symphony, the scrape and spark of rails acting as its lullaby. For the Conductor’s mind she bought a copy of a diplomat’s brain, delivered at Fujairah Station by a strange gentleman on horseback. For the Conductor’s core she stole from the black market a rocket’s still-thrumming heart, silver fluid dripping down her fist as she placed it in the Conductor’s chest.