The goings-on of India’s Railway Stations that I have been fortunate to witness have never failed to escape the corner of my mind that borders on the line between the practicality of catching a train (that is unusually on time, this time) and the imagery in the landscape, the station, the people and most importantly, the trains.
Today, the UP 15959 was on time as usual. Having another 30 minutes to kill, I made a bee-line for the book stall. With a customary greeting, the stall keeper, in between his attempts to squeeze out all the remaining essence from his paan, sang the names of all magazines out this week. I bought one and decided to find myself a place to sit. Something I later found was impossible to do.
I tried to navigate between the sea of people, both standing and squatting on the Platform and scanned every bench or box in view where I could peacefully sit for a few minutes. But sadly today was one of those days when all of my planning had proved futile. Angry over my own predicament, the poor magazine was tucked inside the travelling bag.
To shake off my irritation, I decided to walk. On the platform. From the west point signpost (where they write the station name in 3 languages, along with its height from the MSL) to the east point. It was something I always wanted to attempt, but had waved it off as being a silly idea. Today was to be an exception then.
I bravely made my way on that fated platform. Meandering among the ever-waiting crowd, without bumping or stumbling, someone inside me had already began to vision himself as a platform-trekker, with nothing but the point in sight, the ultimate goal.
Shortly, I came across a bunch of sleeping coolies. One with a particularly prominent beard and a dirty lungi was sleeping so, that he completely blocked my path. Flames of frustration rose inside once again, and I decided to wake him up, give him a piece of my mind and journey towards that coveted imaginary platform trekker title.
But something made me stop in my tracks.
The coolie’s closed eyes.
Nowhere before had I seen such contentment, such satisfaction as was leaking from those eyes of his. Mouth curled up in a smile, his dirty hands clasping a small bag of rags, it was almost as if God, the sculptor had decided to show us how happy, how content can one be. He must be singing in his dreams, I thought. For all I know, in mine, I just wail and howl endlessly.
No. No one is meant to wake him up this way.
By the side of the sleeping coolies, I found myself a box to squat on. 10 minutes later, the 15959 UP made its way into the platform. The Lo co ahead, proudly clearing all urchins, rag-pickers and scores of flies from the tracks as it gently pulled the train forwards.
One of them flies, made its way to the bearded old coolie, and made a throne of his nose. The old man awoke with a start.
“Aree sala, train aai gawa!”
With a great hurry, he jumped onto the nearest bogie and began the game of coolies we all are so familiar with.
My imagery broken, I re-navigated my way to my own compartment and settled down for another round of a sleep with screams.
-Palash
(March 2012)
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