(This piece was written way back in March. I dont remember writing it, but I remember being fairly impressed when I read it much later on, last month. I even wondered if I'd actually written it, thinking it might have been Swaroop's :p )
I coughed and hid under my blanket. The train rattled through uninhabited plains, rendered dim by the thick, solar-shielding coat of the windows. I had been in the wretched train for less than two hours—enough time for the inhospitable AC atmosphere to get to me. I had tears streaming incessantly from my eyes, only to be matched by a nose that ran like a leaky drain, my cheeks were puffed, and I felt like that time, when, as an adventurous kid of six, I had climbed into the freezer, half-naked. I coughed again—this time a series of jerky noises that concluded in a horrible, wheezy squeal that caused many heads to turn. I buried myself under the blanket, more out of embarrassment than cold, promising never to resurface until the landscape outside changed.
******
“Sir?” I heard a youthful voice call out softly, from very near my face, on other side of the rug.
I did not respond.
“Sir? Please wake up”
I rolled over.
“I know you are not asleep, Sir. I know”
Now I was curious. I turned around and pulled off the blanket to see an unfamiliar face stare at me: it had the eyes of a frog—large, oval and kind; the nose—long and flat—the shape of a boatman’s oar; prominent cheekbones, nondescript ears, a hint of a mush and a two-day stubble. I scowled, face muscles crumpling up—I can sure look hideous when I want to. He looked at me with eyes widened and broke into a great, big smile. And I couldn’t help smiling back myself.
“I’ve got hot tomato soup for you” he said and thrust the cup into my hands.
I was still a little groggy. I did not know what to say, how to react. I groped under the blanket, inside my jeans-pockets and struggled to extract my wallet.
“No, no sir!” he said, rushing to stop me, “Please. Payment can wait. You really need this, urgently”
I shook my head in refusal, though, inwardly, I was grateful—those pockets were a pain, having a two- centimetre radius through which I wondered how I had managed to squeeze in my wallet in the first place. I gratefully accepted the soup—the warmth of the plastic cup itself was rejuvenating. I let the steam from the cup warm my face, a flush of blood returned to my cheeks and then I gingerly slurped.
“Excellent” I said hoarsely, to my new friend, who beamed in return and continued, “Thank You”
“Oh, no problems, sir” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “We see a lot of cases like you. Don’t worry. You are in safe hands”
And then, in a flurry he was gone, carrying his tray and vessel with a practised carelessness, announcing to whoever was interested in a monotonic but resonant voice that even the farthest man in the compartment could hear with astounding clarity, “Tomato Soup! Tomato Soup!”
And all that was left was the rhythmic, monotonous rattle of the train; and outside, beyond the rail-tracks and the wires and the milestones, I saw green fields and cows and tiny huts and men toiling under the afternoon sun: the landscape had changed.
******
After many hours of fitful sleep, characterised by dreams of great recollection value, I felt much better. Outside, all was dark—not even specks of light in the distance—and, courtesy the darkness, I felt we were moving at twice the usual speed. I felt much better.
I wanted fresh air—one untouched by the stale scent of rugs, pillows and the odd perfume—and I walked across to the enclosure between compartments. I looked at myself in the stained mirror: I looked a sick man still. I sat by the door and peered outside: trees sped by, but beyond there was just black. The sky was blacker still—dotted by thousands of stars, a sight that I love and hadn’t seen for a long while. With soft-music in my ears—thanks to my brand new MP3 player-- drowning the drone of the train, I relaxed. And sat and gazed.
A tap on my shoulder brought me back to my senses. I turned around to see another hot cup of soup on the floor beside me, pulsating with the throb of the train. And he was gone.
******
I remember not having slept that night: The AC and its effects served as a huge disincentive to get back, and I also felt my cold returning. What’s more, I had a very good book with me—I cant quite put my finger on what it was, perhaps a Gerald Durrell, and I sat in that enclosure, the only place that was still lit at unearthly hours and read till plains changed to forest that further transformed into city and stations and finally returned to being the plains, lit only by the radiance of a million stars; till the stars all set, in their own precise manner, and a sleepy, red-eyed sun rose over the hills in the distance.
I slept as people awoke.
******
I lugged my bag and walked up to the enclosure and placed it there. There was just one man who was standing by the door—tilting outwards into the wind that set his hair wild, balanced as precariously as a circus acrobat, only his hands held the garish, yellow bars on either side of the door for support. He wore a stained railway uniform and he seemed to be lost in thought. I don’t know why, but I said,
“Oye! Be careful!”
He turned around and we both broke into smiles, his smile much more open and radiant than mine.
“So, sir! You are getting off?”
I nodded in the affirmative, still smiling.
“How are you? Cold gone? Magic soup did the trick?” he spoke as fast as the train in the darkness, questions incessant, yet considerate and genuine.
“Gone!” I said and extracted my wallet with surprising ease, and thrust a hundred rupee not in his hand—the cost of nearly a dozen soups—and said, “Thanks!”
“Sir” he said, “Why simply?”, but nevertheless pocketed it gratefully.
And then there was silence, punctuated only by the incessant rattling of the train, as we both swayed.
“So, Ranga” I said eventually, with a swift glance at his badge, “Where are you from?”
“Belgaum” he said, now looking away and staring again into the darkness.
“And you’ve been in this train-business for how long?”
“Three years” and then added just to assure himself, I thought, “I like it here”
“You do?” I asked.
“Yes. You get to make friends here. The other members of the staff are very nice and friendly—they really pamper me, being the youngest and all. And you see so many people: and you learn from them. Every journey always brings in interesting people” he said, thoughtfully, words no longer coming out like they were slipping down a slide, and added, “India is a very big country”
I didn’t know what to say. And so I listened. And as he grew more comfortable, his speech grew faster, as though he was trying to match the words-per-minute world record, and he was telling me about his childhood, his village, his love-affair with the railways, Sachin Tendulkar and tomato soup. Sometimes I would lose track of what he would say, for I would get lost in his gestures—intensely expressive, like a child practising for a school-play; even more distracting were his giant eyes and those orb-like, kind eyeballs that sometimes grew so large that they almost seemed fake. Sometimes, he proved to just be too fast for me. He was saying something, when I interrupted, apologised for doing so and asked,
“How much do you earn?”“Not much, Sir. 1600 rupees plus food and clothes”
“And what do you do with it?”
“I send it back home. To my father. They are looking for bride for me now; then I’ll surely get some money. I might even quit this place and go to the city in search of something”
“And where in the—“
He cut me short, to add with a naughty, girlish giggle,
“Oh, I save some money to buy the odd cigarette or a bottle of booze” and before I knew it, he was blowing air into my face and asking, “Can you smell it in my breath?”
I couldn’t. My nose was blocked. I said very appreciatively,
“Oh. I can. Some booze that is!”
We talked some more: about Kannada film actresses and strangely, the polio vaccine.
******
And then, it was time for me to leave. The train was braking hard now, inertia caused me to be momentarily unbablanced, before it slowed down considerably, the rhythmic beats becoming louder and clearer, horn blowing, much like an elephant trumpeting, as it curved to enter my station. It stops for barely two minutes, so we bid a hurried farewell, as I wished him all the best and shook his hand and he half-hugged me. I jumped off and turned around to see him beaming. And before we knew it, the train sounded its horn, and it slowly, creaked back to motion. He was waving now—in his own exaggerated manner, hands everywhere, the wind messing up his hair once again, and then he shouted:
“Remember the name, Sir”, and he was farther and farther away, “K.P.Raghu! You’ll see me in the papers one day—even Rajni Kant started off as a bus conductor”
I then checked my jeans pocket—it was a mechanical action with me—and realised: the wallet was gone.
I coughed and hid under my blanket. The train rattled through uninhabited plains, rendered dim by the thick, solar-shielding coat of the windows. I had been in the wretched train for less than two hours—enough time for the inhospitable AC atmosphere to get to me. I had tears streaming incessantly from my eyes, only to be matched by a nose that ran like a leaky drain, my cheeks were puffed, and I felt like that time, when, as an adventurous kid of six, I had climbed into the freezer, half-naked. I coughed again—this time a series of jerky noises that concluded in a horrible, wheezy squeal that caused many heads to turn. I buried myself under the blanket, more out of embarrassment than cold, promising never to resurface until the landscape outside changed.
******
“Sir?” I heard a youthful voice call out softly, from very near my face, on other side of the rug.
I did not respond.
“Sir? Please wake up”
I rolled over.
“I know you are not asleep, Sir. I know”
Now I was curious. I turned around and pulled off the blanket to see an unfamiliar face stare at me: it had the eyes of a frog—large, oval and kind; the nose—long and flat—the shape of a boatman’s oar; prominent cheekbones, nondescript ears, a hint of a mush and a two-day stubble. I scowled, face muscles crumpling up—I can sure look hideous when I want to. He looked at me with eyes widened and broke into a great, big smile. And I couldn’t help smiling back myself.
“I’ve got hot tomato soup for you” he said and thrust the cup into my hands.
I was still a little groggy. I did not know what to say, how to react. I groped under the blanket, inside my jeans-pockets and struggled to extract my wallet.
“No, no sir!” he said, rushing to stop me, “Please. Payment can wait. You really need this, urgently”
I shook my head in refusal, though, inwardly, I was grateful—those pockets were a pain, having a two- centimetre radius through which I wondered how I had managed to squeeze in my wallet in the first place. I gratefully accepted the soup—the warmth of the plastic cup itself was rejuvenating. I let the steam from the cup warm my face, a flush of blood returned to my cheeks and then I gingerly slurped.
“Excellent” I said hoarsely, to my new friend, who beamed in return and continued, “Thank You”
“Oh, no problems, sir” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “We see a lot of cases like you. Don’t worry. You are in safe hands”
And then, in a flurry he was gone, carrying his tray and vessel with a practised carelessness, announcing to whoever was interested in a monotonic but resonant voice that even the farthest man in the compartment could hear with astounding clarity, “Tomato Soup! Tomato Soup!”
And all that was left was the rhythmic, monotonous rattle of the train; and outside, beyond the rail-tracks and the wires and the milestones, I saw green fields and cows and tiny huts and men toiling under the afternoon sun: the landscape had changed.
******
After many hours of fitful sleep, characterised by dreams of great recollection value, I felt much better. Outside, all was dark—not even specks of light in the distance—and, courtesy the darkness, I felt we were moving at twice the usual speed. I felt much better.
I wanted fresh air—one untouched by the stale scent of rugs, pillows and the odd perfume—and I walked across to the enclosure between compartments. I looked at myself in the stained mirror: I looked a sick man still. I sat by the door and peered outside: trees sped by, but beyond there was just black. The sky was blacker still—dotted by thousands of stars, a sight that I love and hadn’t seen for a long while. With soft-music in my ears—thanks to my brand new MP3 player-- drowning the drone of the train, I relaxed. And sat and gazed.
A tap on my shoulder brought me back to my senses. I turned around to see another hot cup of soup on the floor beside me, pulsating with the throb of the train. And he was gone.
******
I remember not having slept that night: The AC and its effects served as a huge disincentive to get back, and I also felt my cold returning. What’s more, I had a very good book with me—I cant quite put my finger on what it was, perhaps a Gerald Durrell, and I sat in that enclosure, the only place that was still lit at unearthly hours and read till plains changed to forest that further transformed into city and stations and finally returned to being the plains, lit only by the radiance of a million stars; till the stars all set, in their own precise manner, and a sleepy, red-eyed sun rose over the hills in the distance.
I slept as people awoke.
******
I lugged my bag and walked up to the enclosure and placed it there. There was just one man who was standing by the door—tilting outwards into the wind that set his hair wild, balanced as precariously as a circus acrobat, only his hands held the garish, yellow bars on either side of the door for support. He wore a stained railway uniform and he seemed to be lost in thought. I don’t know why, but I said,
“Oye! Be careful!”
He turned around and we both broke into smiles, his smile much more open and radiant than mine.
“So, sir! You are getting off?”
I nodded in the affirmative, still smiling.
“How are you? Cold gone? Magic soup did the trick?” he spoke as fast as the train in the darkness, questions incessant, yet considerate and genuine.
“Gone!” I said and extracted my wallet with surprising ease, and thrust a hundred rupee not in his hand—the cost of nearly a dozen soups—and said, “Thanks!”
“Sir” he said, “Why simply?”, but nevertheless pocketed it gratefully.
And then there was silence, punctuated only by the incessant rattling of the train, as we both swayed.
“So, Ranga” I said eventually, with a swift glance at his badge, “Where are you from?”
“Belgaum” he said, now looking away and staring again into the darkness.
“And you’ve been in this train-business for how long?”
“Three years” and then added just to assure himself, I thought, “I like it here”
“You do?” I asked.
“Yes. You get to make friends here. The other members of the staff are very nice and friendly—they really pamper me, being the youngest and all. And you see so many people: and you learn from them. Every journey always brings in interesting people” he said, thoughtfully, words no longer coming out like they were slipping down a slide, and added, “India is a very big country”
I didn’t know what to say. And so I listened. And as he grew more comfortable, his speech grew faster, as though he was trying to match the words-per-minute world record, and he was telling me about his childhood, his village, his love-affair with the railways, Sachin Tendulkar and tomato soup. Sometimes I would lose track of what he would say, for I would get lost in his gestures—intensely expressive, like a child practising for a school-play; even more distracting were his giant eyes and those orb-like, kind eyeballs that sometimes grew so large that they almost seemed fake. Sometimes, he proved to just be too fast for me. He was saying something, when I interrupted, apologised for doing so and asked,
“How much do you earn?”“Not much, Sir. 1600 rupees plus food and clothes”
“And what do you do with it?”
“I send it back home. To my father. They are looking for bride for me now; then I’ll surely get some money. I might even quit this place and go to the city in search of something”
“And where in the—“
He cut me short, to add with a naughty, girlish giggle,
“Oh, I save some money to buy the odd cigarette or a bottle of booze” and before I knew it, he was blowing air into my face and asking, “Can you smell it in my breath?”
I couldn’t. My nose was blocked. I said very appreciatively,
“Oh. I can. Some booze that is!”
We talked some more: about Kannada film actresses and strangely, the polio vaccine.
******
And then, it was time for me to leave. The train was braking hard now, inertia caused me to be momentarily unbablanced, before it slowed down considerably, the rhythmic beats becoming louder and clearer, horn blowing, much like an elephant trumpeting, as it curved to enter my station. It stops for barely two minutes, so we bid a hurried farewell, as I wished him all the best and shook his hand and he half-hugged me. I jumped off and turned around to see him beaming. And before we knew it, the train sounded its horn, and it slowly, creaked back to motion. He was waving now—in his own exaggerated manner, hands everywhere, the wind messing up his hair once again, and then he shouted:
“Remember the name, Sir”, and he was farther and farther away, “K.P.Raghu! You’ll see me in the papers one day—even Rajni Kant started off as a bus conductor”
I then checked my jeans pocket—it was a mechanical action with me—and realised: the wallet was gone.
