旧轨还乡英译

心镜

2025年3月28日，星期五

阴有小雨，27/13度，风力2级

Going Home on Old Railway

Text by Zhang Xiaoran

Translation by Heartlens

My grandparents held my hands as we boarded the slow-moving green train in Hangzhou, embarking on a 25-hour swaying journey to Ulanqab in Inner Mongolia, and this remains my childhood memory of home-going.

As the train chugged northward, the view outside transformed from the delicate waterways of the south to the boundless plains of the north. Everything felt enchanting, and even the lively chatter in the carriage carried a peculiar warmth.

Before dawn the next day, I pressed my forehead against the fogged window pane, watching the first twilight break over the horizon, feeling as if the sun rose solely to welcome our return.

After starting elementary school, however, our home-going trips dwindled, as the direct train service eventually phased out. Since then, the railway tracks rusted into dotted lines of memory, and my hometown faded like an undeveloped photograph.

Last year, Grandpa passed away, and this turning of events revived our journeys home; yet the home-going trips felt like grueling expeditions. Pre-dawn airport dashes, labyrinthine terminals, claustrophobic turbulence-ridden flights, and hours of mountain roads all left us arriving in darkness. As if to make things worse, winter snowstorms turned highways into perilous sheets of glass. Thus gone were the ever-changing landscapes, since airplane portholes offered only monotonous clouds.

This year, however, news of the train’s revival sparked an indescribable thrill. So one month ago, I finally boarded that long-dreamed-of carriage again.

As night fell, the train set into motion. The familiar dialect of fellow passengers blended with the clatter of wheels on the tracks, composing a nostalgic melody. Lying on my bunk, I swayed gently with the train’s rhythm, as if cradled by Mother Earth itself, though the cabin felt more cramped than I remembered.

Coincidentally, beneath my berth, a grandfather and grandson shared my itinerary. The elderly man curled himself at the foot of the narrow bed to give his grandson more space. After lights-out, the boy stealthily lifted the curtain corner, peering at blurred fleeting landscapes beyond the .

The vending stewardesses pushed carts along the corridor, crying sundry snacks and trinkets. When young passengers ignored them, they turned to older travelers. It seemed that no sales pitch could ever sway the grandfather, until one of the vendors casually remarked: “Kids love it.” Without hesitation, he paid for the item, and an unbudgeted business transaction was thus made.

This scene resurfaced my childhood memories. Had my grandparents also bought trinkets because of me? Had they squeezed themselves into corners so I could sleep soundly? Had I, too, stolen glances at passing landscapes through lifted curtains? Time had blurred the details, but imagination filled the gaps.

When the train finally reached our hometown, seeing Grandma waiting on the platform unleashed my pent-up longing in the form of a tidal wave of tears; the rails had brought me home again.

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