by Ruskin Bond
‘All I need is a cup and the beverage. I prefer drinking black tea.’
That did it. Barin Bhowmik suddenly began to feel rather unwell. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then it seemed as though his heart had grown wings and flown straight into his lungs. It was not just the man’s voice but also the words he uttered with a special emphasis: black tea. That was enough to remove the uncertainties from Barin’s mind. Every memory came flooding back.
Barin had indeed seen this man before and that too—strangely enough—in a similar air-conditioned compartment of a train going to Delhi. He himself was going to Patna to attend the wedding of his cousin, Shipra. Three days before he left, he had won a little more than seven thousand rupees at the races. He could, therefore, afford the luxury of travelling by first class. This happened nine years ago, in 1964, long before he had become a well-known singer. He could vaguely recall the other man’s surname. It began with a ‘C’. Chowdhury? Chakravarty? Chatterjee?
The conductor-guard left. Barin realized he could no longer sit facing the other man. He went and stood in the corridor outside, well away from his fellow passenger. Yes, coincidences did occur in life. But this one was unbelievable.
But had ‘C’ recognized him? If he had not, there might be two reasons for it. Perhaps he had a weak memory. Or perhaps Barin’s appearance had undergone significant changes in these nine years. He stared out of the window and tried to recall what these changes might possibly be.
He had gained a lot of weight, so presumably his face now looked fuller than it had before. He did not wear glasses in those days. Now he did. And his moustaches had gone. When did he shave them off? Ah yes. Not very long ago. He had gone to a salon on Hajra Road. The barber was both young and inexperienced. He failed to get the symmetry right while trimming the moustaches. Barin himself did not notice it at first; but when everyone in his office from the chatty old liftman, Sukdeo, to the sixty-two-year-old cashier, Keshav Babu, began commenting on it, he shaved his precious moustaches off totally. This had happened about four years ago.
So he had lost the moustaches, but gained a bit of flesh on his cheeks and acquired a pair of glasses. Feeling a little reassured, he returned to his carriage.
A bearer came in with a pot of tea and placed it in front of C. Barin, too, felt the need for a drink, but did not dare speak to the bearer. What if C recognized his voice?
Barin did not want even to think about what C might do to him if he did get recognized. But, of course, everything depended on the kind of man C was. If he was anything like Animesh-da, Barin had nothing to fear. Once, in a bus, Animesh-da realized someone was trying to pick his pocket. But he was too shy to raise a hue-and-cry, so he practically gave away his wallet to the pickpocket, together with four crisp ten-rupee notes. He told his family afterwards, ‘A big scene in a crowded bus with me playing a prominent role in it—no, I could not allow that to happen.’
Was this man a bit like that? Probably not. People like Animesh-da were hard to come by. Besides, his looks were not very reassuring. Everything about him—those bushy eyebrows, the blunt nose and that chin that jutted out—seemed to suggest that he would not hesitate at all to plant his hairy hands on Barin’s throat and say, ‘Are you not the same man who stole my clock in 1964? Scoundrel! I have spent these nine years looking for you! Today, I shall . . . .
Barin dared not think any more. Even in this air-conditioned compartment there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. He stretched himself out on his berth and covered his eyes with his left arm. It was one’s eyes that gave one away. In fact, C had seemed familiar only because Barin recognized the look in his eyes.
He could now recall every incident vividly. It was not just the matter of stealing C’s clock. He could remember every little thing he had stolen in his life ever since his boyhood. Some were totally insignificant things like a ballpoint pen (Mukul Mama’s), or a cheap magnifying glass (his classmate, Akshay’s), or a pair of bone cuff-links that belonged to Chheni-da and which Barin did not need at all. He never wore them even once. The only reason he stole these—and, for that matter, all those other things—was that they were near at hand and they belonged to someone else.
Between the ages of twelve and twenty-five, Barin Bhowmik had removed at least fifty different things from various people and made a collection in his house. What could one call it but stealing? The only difference between him and a regular thief was that a thief stole to survive in life; Barin did it out of habit. Nobody ever suspected him. He had, therefore, never been caught. Barin knew that this habit, this strange compulsion to steal things, was a kind of illness. Once he had even learnt the medical term for it from one of his friends who was a doctor, but now he could not remember what it was.
But C’s clock was the last thing he had stolen. In the last nine years, he had never experienced that sudden, strong urge. He knew he had got over his illness and was now totally cured.
The difference between stealing C’s clock and all the other petty thefts he had indulged in was that he had really wanted that clock. It was a beautiful travelling clock, made in Switzerland. It lay in a blue square box and stood upright the moment the lid was lifted. It was an alarm clock and the sound of the alarm was so sweet that it was a pleasure to wake up to it.
Barin had used that clock consistently over these nine years. He took it with him wherever he went. Even today, the clock was resting within the depths of the bag kept on the table before the window.
‘How far are you going?’
Barin gave a violent start. The other man was actually speaking to him!
‘Delhi.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Delhi.’
The first time, in an effort to disguise his voice, Barin had spoken so softly that the man had clearly not heard him.
‘Do you find it a bit too cold in here? Is that what’s affecting your voice?’
‘N-n-no.’
‘It can happen, of course. Actually, I would have preferred going by ordinary first class if it wasn’t for the dust.’
Barin did not utter a word. He did not want to look at C, but his own curiosity forced him to cast frequent glances in C’s direction. Was C showing signs of recognition? No. He appeared quite relaxed. Could he be pretending? But there was no way of being sure. After all, Barin did not know him well. All he had learnt the last time about his fellow passenger was that he liked having black tea and that he was wont to get down at every station to buy snacks. Thanks to this habit, Barin had had the chance to eat a lot of tasty stuff.
Apart from this, Barin had seen one other side to C’s character, just as they were about to reach Patna. This was directly related to the incident involving the clock.
They had been travelling by the Amritsar Mail. It was supposed to reach Patna at 5 a.m. The conductor came and woke Barin at 4.30. C, too, was half awake, although he was going up to Delhi.
Just about three minutes before the train was to reach Patna, it suddenly screeched to a halt. What could be the reason? There were a few people with torches running about on the tracks. Was it anything serious? In the end, the guard turned up and said that an old man had been run over by the engine while crossing the track. The trail would start as soon as his body was removed.
C got very excited at this news and clambered down quickly in the dark, still clad in his sleeping suit. Then he went out to see for himself what had happened.
It was during this brief absence that Barin had removed the clock from C’s bag. He had seen C wind it the night before, and had felt tempted immediately. But since the chances of finding a suitable opportunity were dim, he had told himself to forget the whole thing. But, when an opportunity presented itself so unexpectedly, Barin simply could not stop himself. Even at the risk of being seen by the other passenger lying on the upper berth, he had slipped his hand into C’s bag and had taken the clock out. Then he had dropped it into his own case. It took him between fifteen and twenty seconds to do thi
s. C had returned about five minutes later.
‘A horrible business! A beggar, you see. The head’s been totally severed from the body. I fail to see how an engine can possibly hit somebody despite a cow-catcher. Isn’t it supposed to push aside all obstacles on the track?’
Barin got off safely at Patna and was met by his uncle. The faint uneasiness in the pit of his stomach vanished the instant he got into his uncle’s car and, drove off. His heart told him that that was the end of the story. No one could catch him now. The chances of running into C were one in a million; or perhaps even less than that.
But who knew that one day, years later, by such an incredible coincidence, they would meet again? ‘A thing like this is enough to make one turn superstitious,’ Thought Barin to himself.
‘Do you live in Delhi? Or Calcutta?’ asked C.
He had asked him a lot of questions the last time as well, Barin recalled. He hated people who tried to act friendly.
‘Calcutta,’ said Barin. Oh no! He had spoken in his normal voice. He really must be more careful.
Good God—why was the man staring so hard at him? What could be the reason for such interest? Barin’s pulse began beating faster again.
‘Did your photograph come out in the papers recently?’
Barin realized it would be foolish not to tell the truth. There were other Bengali passengers on the train who might recognize him. There was no harm in telling this man who he was. In fact, if he could be told that Barin was a famous singer, he might find it difficult to relate him to the thief who had once stolen his clock.
‘Where did you see this photograph?’ Barin threw a counter question.
‘Do you sing?’ came another one.
‘Yes, a little.’
‘Your name . . . ?’
‘Barindranath Bhowmik.’
‘Ah, I see. Barin Bhowmik. That’s why you seemed familiar. You sing on the radio, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wife is an admirer of yours. Are you going to Delhi to sing at some function?’
‘Yes.’
Barin was not going to tell him much. If a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ could suffice, there was no need to say anything else.
‘I know a Bhowmik in Delhi. He’s in the Finance Ministry. Nitish Bhowmik. Is he a relative or something?’
Indeed. Nitish was Barin’s first cousin. A man well known for his rigid discipline. A close relative, but not one close to Barin personally.
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know him.’
Barin decided to tell this one lie. He wished the man would stop talking. Why did he want to know so many things?
Oh good. Lunch had arrived. Hopefully, the volley of questions would cease, at least for a little while.
And so it did. C was obviously one who enjoyed eating. He began to concentrate on his food and fell silent. Barin no longer felt all that nervous, but still he could not relax completely. They would have to spend at least another twenty hours in each other’s company. Memory was such a strange phenomenon. Who could tell what little thing—a gesture, a look, a word—might make some old and forgotten memory come to life?
Black tea, for instance. Barin believed that if those two words had not been uttered, he would never have recognized C. What if something he said or something he did made C recognize him?
The best thing, of course, would be not to say or do anything at all. Barin lay down on his berth, hiding his face behind his paperback. When he finished the first chapter, he turned his head cautiously and stole a glance at C. He seemed to be asleep. The Illustrated Weekly had dropped from his hand onto the floor. An arm was flung across his eyes, but from the way his chest rose and fell it seemed as though he had fallen into a deep sleep. Barin looked out of the window. Open fields, trees, little huts—the barren landscape of Bihar flashed past. The noise of the wheels came very faintly through the double glass of the windows, sounding as though, in the far distance, a number of drums were being beaten in the same steady rhythm: dha-dhinak, na-dhinak, dha-dhinak, na-dhinak . . . .
Another sound from within was soon added to this: the sound of C’s snoring.
Barin felt a lot more reassured. He began humming a Nazrul song. His voice did not sound too bad. He cleared his throat once and began to sing a bit more loudly. But he had to stop almost immediately.
Something else was making a noise in the compartment. It shocked Barin into silence.
It was the sound of an alarm clock. The alarm on the Swiss clock kept in his bag had somehow been set off. And it continued to ring, non-stop.
Barin discovered he could not move his limbs. They were paralyzed with fear. His eyes fixed themselves on C.
C moved his arm. Barin stiffened.
C was now awake. He removed his arm from his eyes.
‘Is it that glass? Could you please remove it? It’s vibrating against the wall.’
The noise stopped the instant Barin took the glass out of the iron ring attached to the wall. Before placing it on the table, he drank the water that was in it. This helped his throat, but he was still in no mood to start singing again.
Tea was served a little before they reached Hazaribagh Road. Two cups of hot tea and the absence of any further curious questions from C helped him relax more. He looked out once again and began humming softly. Soon, he was able to forget totally the danger he was in.
At Gaya, not unexpectedly, C got down on the platform and returned with two packets of peanuts. He gave one of them to Barin. Barin consumed the whole packet with considerable relish.
The sun had set by the time they left the station. C switched the lights on and said, ‘Are we running late? What’s the time on your watch?’
Barin realized for the first time that C was not wearing a watch. This surprised him and he could into help but show it. Then he remembered that C’s question had not been answered. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘It’s 7.35,’ he said.
‘Then we’re running more or less on time.’
‘Yes.’
‘My watch broke this morning. It was an HMT . . . gave excellent time . . . but this morning someone pulled my bedsheet so hard that the watch fell on the ground and . . . .’
Barin did not comment. Any mention of watches and clocks was reprehensible.
‘What make is your watch?’ asked C.
‘HMT.’
‘Does it keep good time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Actually, I have always been unlucky in the matter of clocks.’
Barin tried to yawn, simply to assume an unconcerned air, but failed in his attempt. Even the muscles in his jaw appeared to be paralyzed. He could not open his mouth. But his ears continued to function. He was forced to hear all that C had to say.
‘I once had a Swiss travelling clock, you see. Made of gold. A friend of mine had brought it from Geneva. I had used it for barely a month and was carrying it with me on a train to Delhi—exactly like this, you know, in an air-conditioned compartment like this. There were only two of us—another Bengali chap. Do you know what he did? Just think of his daring! In my absence—while I may have gone to the bathroom or something—he nicked that clock from me! He looked such a complete gentleman. But I suppose I’m lucky he didn’t murder me in my sleep. I stopped travelling by train after that. This time, too, I would have gone by air, but the pilots’ strike upset my plans . . . .’
Barin Bhowmik’s throat was dry, his hands felt numb. But he knew if he said absolutely nothing after a tale like that, it would seem odd. In fact, it would seem distinctly suspicious. With a tremendous effort, he forced himself to speak.
‘Did . . . did you not look for it?’
‘Ha! Can any stolen object be found simply by looking for it? But, for a long time, I could not forget what the man looked like. Even now I have a vague recollection. He was neither fair nor dark, had a moustache and must have been about the same height as you, but was slimmer. If I could meet him again, I would teach him a lesson he’d remember all hi
s life. I was a boxer once, you know. A light heavyweight champion. That man is lucky our paths never crossed again . . . .’
Barin could now remember the full name of his companion. Chakravarty. Pulak Chakravarty. Strange! The minute he mentioned boxing, his name flashed in Barin’s mind like a title on a television screen. Pulak Chakravarty had talked a lot about boxing the last time.
But even if his name had come back to him, what good did it do? After all, it was Barin who was the culprit. And now it had become impossible to carry his load of guilt. What if he went and confessed everything? And then returned the clock? There it was in that bag . . . so near at hand . . . !
No! Was he going mad? How could he entertain such thoughts? He was a famous vocalist. How could he admit to having stooped so low? Would his reputation not suffer? Would anyone ever invite him to sing at their function? What would his fans think? Where was the guarantee that this other man was not a journalist or someone connected with the media? No, there was no question of making a confession.
Perhaps there was no need for it, either. Perhaps he would be recognized, anyway. Pulak Chakravarty was giving him rather odd looks. Delhi was still sixteen hours away. There was every chance of being caught. In Barin’s mind flashed a sudden image—his moustaches had grown back, the flesh on his face had worn away, his glasses had vanished. Pulak Chakravarty was staring hard at the face he had seen nine years ago. The look of amazement in his slightly hazel eyes was slowly turning into a look filled with anger. His lips were parting in a slow, cruel smile. ‘Ah ha!’ he seemed to be saying, ‘you are the same man, are you not? Good. I have waited all these years to lay my hands on you. Now I shall have my little revenge . . . .’
By 10 p.m., Barin had acquired a fairly high temperature, accompanied by intense shivering. He called the guard and asked for an extra blanket. Then he covered himself from head to foot with both blankets and lay flat on his back. Pulak Chakravarty closed the door of their compartment and bolted it. Before switching off the lights, he turned towards Barin and said, ‘You appear unwell. I have some very effective pills with me—here, take these two. You’re not used to travelling in an air-conditioned coach, are you?’
