When the government introduced the Vande Bharat trains a few years after coming to power in 2014, it promised a revolution for Indian Railways. The vision was grand: modern coaches, premium amenities, and a complete overhaul of the passenger experience. *Vande Bharat* translates to "I salute India"—a name deeply tied to King Bharat, the legendary, just, and brave ruler who brought immense glory to this land. It is a name that evokes pride, excellence, and high standards. Yet, more than a decade into this vision, the reality on the ground makes the choice of this name feel entirely unearned.
Positioned as a premium service—with tickets priced twice as high as regular trains—Vande Bharat was meant to be a showcase of modern Indian engineering and hospitality. Instead, a recent journey on the newly introduced Pune-Nagpur Vande Bharat re-emphasized a frustrating truth: premium branding cannot mask a fundamentally unchanged infrastructure.
Having previously had a decent experience traveling to Mumbai on a Vande Bharat, I boarded the Nagpur-bound train with high expectations. Unfortunately, disappointment set in the moment we stepped inside. The floors were visibly stained, the seats were soiled, and the toilets carried an immediate, repelling aura.
I generally dread using toilets on trains, even in executive classes; too often, they look and smell like neglected public conveniences. Vande Bharat was supposed to break this mold with modern occupancy indicators, bio-toilets, automated sliding doors, and better space management. However, the Nagpur Vande Bharat fell incredibly short. The occupancy indicators were broken, meaning passengers had to aggressively jolt the handle to check if a cubicle was occupied—just like on a regular train. The interior maintenance was shoddy, featuring crudely welded fittings instead of properly screwed-in fixtures. The toilets were poorly cleaned and emitted a foul odor. Despite the premium fare, the conditions hardly improved throughout our day-long journey.
The catering was equally disappointing. I have historically avoided Indian Railways meals, often preferring to travel with a bag of fruit. That said, one expects better quality from a premium service. While trains like the Pune-Hyderabad Shatabdi or the Mumbai Vande Bharat manage decent catering, the food served on this route was subpar. The rotis were thick and leathery, the curries were entirely too spicy for my children to eat, the bread was stale, and the kachoris consisted of nothing but a thick, oily, hard-to-chew crust with virtually no filling.
Suspecting that items were missing from the day's menu, we cross-referenced it online. Sure enough, we had not been served the promised coffee, cold drinks, or baked items. When confronted, the IRCTC staff offered vague mumbles about the items being unavailable.
Frustrated, we decided to register a formal complaint. That is when things moved quickly—but entirely in the wrong direction.
Suddenly, the staff rushed to distribute tea sachets and cold drink packets across the coach. The "cold" drinks, however, were practically warm, the coffee remained missing, and standard bread was apparently expected to pass as a "baked item." Furthermore, none of the service staff wore nameplates on their uniforms, making it impossible to verify who was officially on duty. They cycled through mumbling apologies and pleading for their jobs in front of us, only to smirk once they turned away.
When we refused to withdraw the complaint, the situation took an unsettling turn. Two individuals claiming to be IRCTC officers contacted me directly on my personal mobile number. While they obviously had access to my details via the booking PNR, using consumer data to directly call and persuade a passenger to drop a complaint feels like a breach of professional boundaries. Shockingly, one of them even offered a monetary refund on the spot as compensation to make the issue go away.
This interaction made me realize that while the toilets weren't draining efficiently, consumer value certainly was. A simple back-of-the-envelope calculation reveals a troubling picture: multiply the cost of those unserved menu items by the number of passengers on a single train, and the deficit quickly runs into thousands of rupees. Scale that across multiple routes over a year, and it represents a massive gap in accountability. Combined with the broken latches, non-functional indicators, crude welding, and uncleaned coaches, it is clear that passengers are paying premium prices for a service that is quietly cutting corners at every turn.
Lately, we have heard public narratives and government rhetoric urging citizens to vacation within India rather than heading abroad, citing the need to save foreign currency and conserve fuel. But given that the baseline domestic infrastructure cannot be reliably improved even after twelve years, one has to ask: does the government have the moral ground to make such demands?
Why should Indian taxpayers prefer Indian Railways when European rail networks offer a vastly superior, seamless experience? Why should citizens choose ill-maintained, poorly managed domestic transport and dirty destinations when cleaner, more beautiful international alternatives exist? Citizens pay incredibly high taxes, and the money they have left is theirs to spend as they see fit. It is high time the authorities stop lecturing citizens on patriotism and instead focus on getting their own act together to deliver the world-class service we are actually paying for.
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