One Shot: In Sight
It was time. She went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and came back to the living room after having gulped the contents of the glass in a minute. Her bags were packed. The old blue refrigerator that stood at the end of the alleyway that led to their kitchen was switched off, the contents of it distributed to the neighbours ('Milk to the Chaudharys downstairs, dough and vegetables, if any left, to Happy Singh's wife, and the dahi better be finished by you, theek hai?') she remembered her aunt's instructions. The television plug was off too. She had no idea why they did that. But she was instructed to do it, and so, she did.
With nothing left to do, she carried her bags to the doorstep, making sure every window and door was closed. Locking the main door, and then padlocking the grilled door outside it, she stowed the keys into the inside sleeve of her handbag and with one last look at the house that had been her home for almost a decade, she left.
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'Sarma garoo!' shouted the tea vendor from the stall across the road. Mani Sarma, or Phone Booth Sarma as he was called by everyone, looked up from his newspaper and grunted at the man. He hated it when people disturbed his early morning news hour. He always read the news first in town, as he was one of the first ones to get the papers from mills. It was the one time during the day he did not have to talk to people, something he detested, the introverted quiet man that he was. It did not help him much in his profession, though. He had had this convenience store for over a decade now. Tired of the politics at the Steel Plant, he defied his family and relocated to a small quaint town, where he knew he would attract tourists. It started off as a shack that sold newspapers and tourist brochures. He expanded it to a general groceries store, and now, it had a telephone booth, and supported international calls, he said to anyone who asked how his business was doing. He always added that it did not earn much as the people in this part of the world hardly ever had anything to do with people across the seven seas. He was content, though. His mother always said the money in your hand should be like the shoes you wore. Neither too big, nor too small. Just sufficient to get by, she said. And well, he had enough money. Just sufficient to get by, he thought.
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He jogged past a culvert, and found it. Sam Patroda's gift to the country. A yellow telephone booth with the letters 'STD', 'ISD', 'PCO' written in a single file. 'ISD?!' He thought. Who made international calls from this town? Walking briskly towards the booth, he realised it was actually a convenience store. Not bad, he thought, and scrutinised all that the store offered. Water bottles, check. Route map, check. Snacks, though he did not need them, check. The person behind the counter looked at him from above his newspaper. He smiled. The person scrunched up his eyebrows.
'I need to make a call,' he said in Hindi. 'Aan?' He heard. 'Call?' He signed. The man behind the counter hummed and directed him to the booth. 'Delhi' He said. 'Oh, Esstidee ah?' The man asked. He nodded and proceeded to make the call.
Sarma wasn't in such a bad mood anymore. His morning had started out quite well, he smiled to himself. 20 minutes later found him giving directions to the valley to the North Indian boy who had made a call to Delhi. Sarma sold one of many of his route maps, a bunch of water bottles, and a few biscuits. 'Thank you!' The boy smiled. Sarma gave him one of his rare smiles, and bid goodbye to him, going back to Eenadu*. The state was preparing for the first death anniversary of their erstwhile Chief Minister and movie star, Mr. NT Rama Rao. He obviously had to know everything about it!
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It was still very early in the morning when she boarded the train. Her co passengers were all asleep except for one or two in the compartment, talking to their beloveds across the berths. She smiled as she stowed her luggage below her seat and sat. This was her favourite part of the short journey aboard the Visakhapatnam-Kirandul passenger that took her to Araku. For all that she was from Lucknow, a land locked beautiful city that it was, with its alluring architecture and compelling culture, she had decided somewhere in her teenage that it was this city that was more home to her than Lucknow ever was. This coastal city with its muggy summers and uncomfortable monsoons, it had been home to her since she was 9. And she learnt the musical language they spoke too. Learnt to call women slightly older than her, Akka. She now belonged to the land of the garus and the andis. She was often picked on at school for being the hybrid that she was. But her trilinguistic experiences made for some much needed comic relief.
She gathered her bag and set off to stand by the door as the train neared Simhachalam. And she stood there, as the passenger passed the Simhachalam North, into the lush green ghats and the tunnels. The tunnels started off after Pendurti. And she stood there as the train snaked through the ghats, through the tunnels she always lost count of, and finally reached Tyada. Tyada was her alarm clock. It reminded her that her stop was not a long way away. And she always got down here for a cup of chai. From the same tea vendor every time. She would sit at the bench opposite her compartment door and face the horizon, the sun giving her teasing glances as it rose up the horizon.
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He made another pit stop just as the wilderness around him grew thicker. Sitting on a stray boulder, he ripped open another one of the homemade cakes that he bought from the store. He really liked them, he decided. Mentally making a note to find out what they were called and carry home a few, he finished one more before he took off along the barely visible trail, hiking up one of the massive Ghats.
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As the train whistled, she paid the vendor and smiled goodbye to her like she usually did. Jogging slightly to the compartment door so as to not miss the train, she climbed up and stood there, watching the small station disappear out of sight. As she made her way into the compartment, she noticed many of her co passengers waking up. It was close to 6 am, she saw. The chaiwalas and the newspaper boys were bound to move along the train now, calling out their wake up calls to bleary passengers. She sat down at her seat and looked out the window, the beautiful scenery allowing her mind to wander.
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He had finally reached the summit, if you could call it that. What he had actually reached was the edge of the cliff he was hiking up. His jog graduated to a run as he reached even ground. Running along, he noticed that the path he was on led to a dirt road. A few hundred meters onto the dirt road, he saw a damaged sign post with directions to the railway station. He took note of the local language below it too, smiling at the differently shaped jalebis. He continued on the dirt road, only to decide to take a detour to the railway station, hoping to catch his breath, and maybe a decent breakfast.
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She did not realize when she had slipped off into a slumber, the gentle swaying of the train lulling her into it. She woke up as the train lurched to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The train started almost immediately, spiralling her mind into thoughts of how this journey was always more special than the destination. She laughed at her own clichd thoughts, fuelled no doubt, by reading one too many books. She looked out the window as the train rounded the last turn before it reached the station that came before her stop. As it entered the platform, she stood up to gather her luggage. She had to get down at the next stop.
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He had reached the station, or whatever the one platform with an asbestos covering could be called. Sitting down on the lone bench on the platform, he looked up to see the station master walking towards him, whistling a really old Hindi song, he recognised. He looked up irate. Whistling an old song about blooming love, and why the treacherous heart is afraid of it at 6 am in this sleepy station? This man had totally lost it, working at a sleepy station for years must have done it, he thought.
'North Indian?'
The boy nodded. The station master knew his presence irked the North Indian boy. Few people came to his station, that had been his home for all these years. And he liked talking to people. Talk about irony.
'Is there a decent place to have breakfast nearby?' He heard the boy ask. He seemed to have put his inhibitions aside and focus on survival, the smart kid.
'There's a restaurant about 8 kilometres from here. Closest. Closer to Araku. The Araku bound passenger will be here in a few minutes. If you want, hop on it and get off there. By the way, if you don't mind my asking, what are you doing here, in this place? I have lived here almost all my life, and have seen only a handful actually step onto this platform. There's only one train that passes by, and that too stops for just a minute. Are you sure you are not lost?'
The boy shook his head and said, 'I'm where I wanted to be.'
The next few minutes passed in silence. The station master walked to the far end of the station, and he sat down on the bench, cooling down after his hike. He decided he should take off to such places more often. Come on, they were approaching the 21st century! And he was almost finishing college. He liked travelling on his own. He liked the quietness of it. Just as he was revelling in his newfound peace on being alone, the stationmaster came back.
'The train is arriving. You should get on it. The journey is beautiful.'
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She zipped up her bags and counted them again. They weren't going to multiply, but it was her pet peeve. The train was slowing down now, and she impulsively looked out the window. She liked the smaller stations, with the half a minute and one minute halts. The early morning mist was just clearing up, and the station looked as quaint as ever. The station master stood near the first post that was next to the one bench that the platform had. The bench would be unoccupied, she thought, like it always was. But as the curtain of mist cleared, she saw a figure shrouded on the bench. Pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, she squinted. She was scared at first. It didn't seem like even the master knew this.. person? Thing? What if it was a ghost?! Oh, the horror. No. No. She was being stupid. But..They would have been talking had he known.. it. She scrunched up her eyebrows in confusion. This place was always deserted! Who was this? She let out a frustrated sigh, not knowing what was causing her this restlessness.
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He heard the train, but did not look up. This was the only train that passed this station. This one minute was his ticket to a good breakfast, as per the old man beside him. He finally looked up at the train.
'58501 Visakhapatnam - Kirandul Passenger' It read in three languages.
As the brown coaches passed by him slowly, the inevitable halt being postponed with every coach that passed, he looked up at the coach that had just entered the shaded area of the platform. Most of the windows were shut, except for one or two here and there, he could see. One particular window caught his attention. Well, not the window. The silhouette beyond the window. It was a girl, he knew. The way the dim night light from above her bounced off the tendrils of her braid were telling. He saw her fist her fingers around the metal bars of the window. Now he knew why she caught his attention. No other person seemed to look at this non descript station as eagerly as her. He saw as she drew back from the window slightly, like she was surprised by something. She came closer again, and he saw her hand come up to her face. Glasses, he saw.
The coach was opposite the old man now. He saw her face for a second, as the light from the lamp post the station master was stood up against touched her face. And in that moment, he saw.. confusion on her face.
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It was a man. No, a boy, not older than 25, she thought. She leaned to the window bars closely to inspect him, but drew back as if struck as she realised he had spotted her. He looked like he had been studying her for a while. Chi chi, she was staring unabashedly at a stranger in the dark. What had come over her!
She sat straight now, not bothering to look out as the train halted, and to her horror, her coach was directly opposite to the ghost-guy, as she had translated him. She looked straight ahead now, at the empty berth in front of her. The lady sleeping there had just retreated to the restroom. She played with her braid and then chanced a look at the guy again. Her eyes widened as she saw that he was still looking at her. Frowning, she turned to face the berth again. As uncomfortable as she felt, she could not get herself to shut the window. The station master was now talking to the guy, she deduced from her peripheral vision. Ah, coast clear, she thought, and looked out again. The guy ducked to his right to catch her sight! And this time, he raised one eyebrow.
She shut her eyes close, mortified. She thought she read something very similar somewhere. But there, it was a boy on the train and a girl on the platform. Her life was hardly journalable, she scoffed at herself, and dared to look out, seeking him out this time. She saw him lean back on his bench and look.. (smirk?) at her. A few moments passed and nothing moved. As a sliver of a smile started to touch her features, she was startled by the sudden noise of the bell. It was time for the train to move, which meant.. She looked back at the boy. He wasn't leaning back coolly anymore. He was staring at her intently, as though willing for something to happen.
But nothing was to happen, really. This was life. She couldn't get down for a total stranger who had just looked at her for a whole minute, even if his sight had been captivating. This time, she did bring herself to smile at him. Something of a farewell to this small intimate moment they had shared while the world around them had been sleeping. As the train picked up speed and left the station, she clutched at the window bars and looked out till she could no longer see him and the small station. It was then that she remembered where she had read something like this.
The Night Train at Deoli by Ruskin Bond.
She smiled to herself. Ruskin Bond, indeed.
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'The journey was beautiful, indeed.' He thought.
He sighed. He hadn't taken the train, lost as he was in his silent conversation with the girl. If he were the writer of this little scene, he would tag himself cheesy. But cheese or not, he liked it. Smiling to himself and preparing his body for a longer run than he was expecting, he stood up to fasten his backpack and leave the station.
'Pyaar hua iqraar hua hai, pyaar se phir kyon darta hai dil,' sang the station master.
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Notes/Translations:
Eenadu - The largest circulated Telugu newspaper in Andhra Pradesh and Telangana since 1974.
garu/andi - The Telugu equivalent of the Hindi 'ji', Garu used as a suffix for names (Eg: Appy Garu :P) Andi, mostly used for verbs (Cheyyandi - Kijiye, ji)
Tyada, Simhachalam: Stations along the Vizag-Kirandul Line.
Hey guys! I'm back after quite a long time. This OS is based on a trip I was supposed to take in the east coast of our state last year. It was called off, so I'd written what it would be like. Never finished it. I have a little bit time on my hands right now, and so I'm trying to check off a few things I had not managed to, earlier. Hope you liked the OS. I'll try and finish off a few more too.
Hugs,
Appy!
P.S: I was very careful not to use names, if you notice. :)
