by Ruskin Bond
But the 19th of March was different. The entire village and all the schoolchildren had gathered at the station to bid farewell to their little toy wonder, the Cherry Choo-Choo. At around noon, little puffs of smoke appeared above the rolling hills, beyond the distant roofs of the last houses on the horizon. Old Palden was seated as usual with his feet up on the easy chair provided to him by the railways, fast asleep in the warmth of the glorious spring sunshine.
Then came the three short hoots, and that sweet little whistle that scared no one and made thrushes in scrubs stare in awe and wonder at God’s genius; a shining metal bird with a long winding tail, descending flightless.
As the train turned a corner and came into sight, Master Bridges, the insane Englishman, could be seen standing on the roof waving madly with a bamboo in one hand and a garland of cherry blossoms in the other. The whistle kept blowing and engulfing Bridges in puffs of delicate steam. A wild cheer went up from the crowds who rushed onto the tracks and ran waving colourful scarves and sweaters towards the on-coming train. It was a wonder there was no accident that day as the train inched its way forward through a joyous wreath of waving bandanas and woollies who insisted on escorting her in.
As Bridges jumped to the ground, the crowd hoisted him on their shoulders and the Englishman looked like a frosted figurine on top of a meandering wedding cake as the people bore him to where Grandfather Palden, who had not risen from his chair, stared at the euphoric celebrations with the slightest of smiles creasing his wrinkled face. As Bridges was lowered to the ground and walked up to Palden swirling and swishing the cherry brandy in the bamboo flask, he sensed there was something wrong. Old Palden was dead.
Little Jigme often wondered if his Grandfather had died happy or sad. As his body was lowered into a shallow grave beside the blossoming mustard fields, the Cherry Choo-Choo’s whistle blew its last plaintive farewell to Palden, the first master she had known. Bridges knelt down and placed the bamboo flask on the damp earth that now covered old Grandpa, and scattered the cherry blossoms over the top of his grave. Later, the Cherry Choo-Choo pulled away quietly, and the crowd that stood around it waved silently to Grandpa Palden’s crazy English friend, Master Bridges.
The Eurasian engine driver turned to Bridges and asked, ‘An old buddy?’ ‘No,’ murmured Bridges with a sad smile, ‘Half-devil and half-child, but by the living God that made him, he was a better man than I. A funny story; a wonderful memory.’
As the puffing iron-heart chugged beyond the ridge, little warm clouds of smoke dotted the horizon with a message only machines understood. A soft breeze blew gently, over a flask of cherry brandy and a mound of shimmering cherry blossoms.
The people of Tangchik never saw the Cherry Choo-Choo again.
99 UP
Manojit Mitra
THE NEWS SPREAD LIKE WILDFIRE, as any news did in Seulia. Ranjan Kumar was coming to town. The one and only Ranjan Kumar; the matinee idol of the Bengali screen; the face that beamed down at passers-by from a million walls. The Guru of all young men, the heart-throb of every girl that understood Bengali. He, himself, would be here.
No one quite knew how it started, but the news did the rounds swiftly, which was in character with sleepy little Seulia. So little ever happened here that any event, or the prospect of any event, was always big news and the story was passed on and lapped up eagerly by everyone. Have you heard . . . ? O yes, but of course, I knew it long before you did. Or O no, what is it, tell me for heaven’s sake, is that so, my God, etc. and then the latest recipient shoots off to disgorge what he has just consumed. Most of the time, it was something about the daughter of so-and-so running away with so-and-so or someone having a fight with one’s brother over property, or something of the kind. The people of Seulia had to make do with these stories because nothing of any earthshaking importance ever happened here.
Nor was any such thing on the cards. Seulia had no claim to distinction whatsoever. More than a hundred kilometers away from Calcutta, it was not quite a village, and had not yet made up its mind whether to grow into a town. It boasted two rice mills, one high school, a large number of grimy ponds that yielded no fish and a rickety cinema house with an asbestos roof. Thatched huts, pucca and semi-pucca houses stood shoulder to shoulder beside its dusty, cobbled roads. Cycle-rickshaws honked their horns. Bullock-carts trundled along. People walked slowly. The pace of life was slow as slow. No one in Seulia was ever in a hurry.
The one beautiful spot was the railway station. Located at the southern end of Seulia, it was small but picturesque. The station-master, known universally as master mashay, had a one-room office. The rest of the station was bare, with no godowns and waiting-rooms to spoil the view. From the platform, one could see undulating, open fields stretching into the horizon where stood the hazy, blue hills of Chhotanagpur. The landscape was dotted with Krishnachura, Radhachura and Palash trees. The station was hardly ever crowded. Barely half a dozen trains passed through Seulia throughout the day. Two of these were long-distance trains which thundered away haughtily, whistles blowing non-stop as if to ridicule the inconsequential little station. The others stopped, but for hardly a minute. The old men of Seulia often came to the station for their evening stroll. The young men, who had so little to amuse themselves with, would also came often and sit in groups and chat till late into the evening.
The master mashay lived in his small, brick-red quarters close by, but spent most of his time in his office and the platform, because he had nothing better to do. Nitai the mad man, Nitai Pagla to everyone, had no home at all and lived at the station. No one knew where he had come from and how he survived. Sometimes he sat at the same spot for hours. Then he would be galvanized into action all of a sudden. He would wave his hands, roll his eyes upwards and let out shouts of ‘Hai! Hai! Huck! Harrrrrrr . . . .’ and then charge away from the platform, down the tracks, towards the blue horizon. Some time later, he would, again, be seen sitting at one end of the platform, contemplating the tracks, lost to the world.
So what could bring the great Ranjan Kumar to such a pathetic little non-place? The story that emanated from Saha’s tea shop, the birthhouse of many a tale, was that the big man would be here to attend the inaugural show of his latest film, Naba Anuraag (New Love), in Seulia talkies, the show-piece of the town and its only recreational centre, its only link with the world of dreams. Only old films ran here since the cinema had opened about five years ago, but for the first time, it owner, Manik Babu, the richest man of Seulia, had bagged a new film. Naba Anuraag would open here on Friday, along with show houses in Calcutta, which was a big step forward for the whole of Seulia and, to cap it all, Ranjan Kumar would attend the first show.
Initially, no one was quite sure, but as the story went round and round, and one heard it from more and more people, the uncertainty passed and it gained universal credence. What fuelled the gossip mill was Manik Babu’s timely departure for Calcutta on Sunday. It was believed that he had gone there to escort Ranjan Kumar on his way to Seulia. There were one or two dissenting voices. At Saha’s tea stall, Rajen Kundu, the local cynic, claimed that Manik Babu had actually gone to Calcutta to get stones removed from his gall-bladder. But everyone shouted him down. Several tea stall regulars said they had heard from the ushers and gatekeepers of the cinema that Manik Babu’s mission was to bring Ranjan Kumar and that was that.
There was great excitement the next few days. It was taken for granted that Ranjan Kumar would arrive by the 99 UP from Calcutta. It reached Seulia at 2:30 in the afternoon, just in time for the first show at 3 o’clock. It was also agreed that everyone would be at the station in time to receive the big man. The girls, naturally, were most enthusiastic. In every house at Seulia, there were excited female voices discussing what they should on the big day. Many decided to carry garlands. In Kailash’s hair-cutting saloon and Krishna hotel, Seulia football club and rice mills, all the talk was about Sunday and Ranjan Kumar. Coming to the station on Friday? Yes, of course. The secretary of the f
ootball club proposed a public reception for Ranjan Kumar, but others vetoed it, arguing that the big man would have no time to spare. Actually, they were more apprehensive of the way the secretary would go about it, being an irrepressible bungler.
In the high school, Sanskrit teacher Taranath Pandit tried to put the fear of God in the heart of every student. Film stars and their like should be ignored by students, he said, because they were filthy, immoral creatures. But in the staff room, he ran into heavy weather. The teachers of English and Mathematics called him prudish, ignorant and an antiquarian, living in the times of Manu. They had the impudence to suggest that he should chop off his pigtail and read film magazines! Taranath was livid.
Everyone, down to Matru the milkman and the rickshawallas, looked forward to the big day with great expectations. Spirits were generally high. Ignoring Taranath’s warnings, the schoolboys visited Seulia talkies every day, where posters of Naba Anuraag were on display, the focal point being the beaming visage of handsome Ranjan Kumar. These visits boosted their spirits further. In every house, the girls giggled and repeated whatever they knew about his personal life, his loves and his marriages. Even the normally taciturn station-master was infected. A bachelor, he lived alone. He had no friends at Seulia to discuss such things with and was by nature a shy person. But in his heart, there was a soft corner for Ranjan Kumar. During his three years at Kharagpur station, he had seen several Ranjan Kumar films. He was in his mid-forties now, but in his heart of hearts, he liked to imagine himself as a dashing, romantic youth, much in demand among women, just like Ranjan Kumar on the silver screen. He did not participate in any discussion, but kept one ear cocked and quietly awaited his hero’s arrival.
On Friday, small groups began to arrive at the station around noon. By 1 o’clock the up platform was jampacked. The late-comers spilled over to the down platform, grudgingly, because those on the up platform would be the first to see the star and would perhaps even be able to touch him. Everybody was there, except for Taranath Pandit who knew from the thin attendance in Class X that his campaign had failed. Girls stood in giggling, chattering groups, making mildly critical comments on the another’s dress. The elderly women stood in a separate group. The young men jostled around jauntily. Loud pleasantries were exchanged. Even Rajen Kundu was there. His scepticism had gone down over the last few days, and looking at the large, expectant crowd, he also wanted to believe that he had been wrong. Many brought garlands for Ranjan Kumar. Matru the milkman was wearing a clean shirt, something no one had seen him doing for years. Inside the station office, the lonely station-master paced up and down, came out to look occasionally at the crowd, and retreated again into his room.
The only person who did not seem to enjoy the proceedings was Nitai Pagla. He was visibly irritated. Over the years, he had got used to being the lord of the station, where he could do as he pleased. He did not understand the sudden invasion of his privacy. Things turned worse when the school boys decided to amuse themselves by pulling his leg. After some time, he could take it no more. He gnashed his teeth, rolled his eyes heavenwards and broke into yells of ‘Wheee . . . Hoa Hoa . . . Hiya hei . . . Harrrrr . . . .’ Then he sprinted through the crowd and took off along his usual route down the tracks. This added to the general merriment. Some schoolboys pursued him for a little distance but Nitai was too fast for them. Soon he disappeared from view.
The tension became unbearable as the signal dipped. Only minutes to go before the great moment! Everyone jockeyed for a place on the edge of the platform and altercations broke out. There was much speculation about where the first class compartment would be located, and shouts of don’t-step-on-my-toes. Some women complained shrilly that they were being pushed back. As the engine came into view, the crowd burst into thunderous applause.
Huffing and puffing, clanking and creaking, 99 UP entered Seulia station and came to a screechy halt. The lone first class compartment was last but one. As someone shouted, ‘here’, the entire crowd pushed in that direction. There was utter confusion. Only the strongest men could reach its two doors. Not many were likely to get off the first class anyway, for Seulia had few people who travelled first class. But one passenger did step out of it. It was Manik Babu, the cinema house owner.
There was another burst of applause. If Manik Babu was there, Ranjan Kumar was sure to follow. But there was no Ranjan Kumar. Manik Babu was quite flabbergasted at the wild reception. He wanted to know what was going on, but volleys of questions were fired at him before he could make himself heard. Where was Ranjan Kumar? Hadn’t he come? Why? Would he come by the evening train? Was Ranjan Kumar ill? Would he come at all? So on and so forth.
It took Manik Babu several minutes to size up things. Then he patiently explained to the crowd that Ranjan Kumar was never expected, that he had not invited Ranjan Kumar, that he had gone to Calcutta for personal reasons. No, no, no, there were no stones in his gall-bladder. He had gone to attend his niece’s wedding. There would be no opportunity to see Ranjan Kumar in flesh, but everyone was welcome to Seulia Talkies to see him at his best in Naba Anuraag. After buying tickets, of course. Heh Heh Heh. Then he strode away briskly. He had to be at Seulia Talkies on time for the first show.
The rear of 99 UP receded into the distance. As word went round, a hush fell on the platform. The crowd milled around, not quite able to grasp the tragedy. So Ranjan Kumar was never supposed to come? But everyone said he was coming? Not fair. Not fair at all. Come to think of it, Manik Babu should have invited Ranjan Kumar. It would have looked so grand. Who spread the story? Must have been those useless louts guzzling down tea at Saha’s stall. What was the world coming to? Bad. Bad. Too bad.
Gradually, the disappointed crowd began to disperse. Some of the girls were on the verge of tears. The garlands were thrown away. Rajen Kundu tried to do an I-told-you-so but was promptly snubbed into silence by his friends. Matru the milkman muttered to himself as he walked home. The young men wanted to blame someone for the whole thing but could not decide on a target, which left them feeling even worse. The elderly women got into arguments among themselves. The station-master sat alone in his room, trying hard to read a novel. There were three more trains to pass. He came out of his office after half an hour. There was no one at the station.
On that evening, everything in Seulia seemed to have gone away. The schoolboys could not concentrate on their home tasks. The evening chat session at Saha’s tea stall was desultory, and the participants left early for home. Even those who saw the first show of Naba Anuraag felt cheated, because they had hoped to see their hero in flesh and on the screen simultaneously. In every home, the women were dispirited.
The last train passed at 8.30. The station-master arranged his things and locked up his office. Now, to home and rest. The night guard would pick up the key from his quarters. The station-master stood on the platform and looked at the town. A few lights were on here and there, but they would go out soon. There was no electricity yet and Seulia went to bed early. It had nothing to amuse its people with till late in the evening. Well, this had promised to be a special day, but . . . . The station-master shivered. The wind blowing down from the distant hills was cold. The first touch of winter! October was only three days away. He must remember to bring his woollen muffler from tomorrow. The station-master slowly walked home.
The night wind kept blowing. It dragged away the flowers, papers and sundry other rubbish usually left behind by the crowd. The Krishnachura and Palash trees murmured softly, for a long time there was no other sound. Then there arose a full-throated cry, ‘Ha Ha Ha Ha! Hoi Hai Huh! Huck Harrrrrr . . . .’
The Intimate Demon
* There were no corridors or vestibules up to the 1960s. Each compartment was an independent unit. The trains had four classes: I, II, Inter and III.
Acknowledgements
THE AUTHOR AND PUBLISHERS WOULD like to thank the following for permission to reprint the stories and extracts in this anthology:
Oxford University Pre
ss for ‘Loyalty’ from Jim Corbett’s India (1952) by Jim Corbett
Ravi Dayal Publishers for the extract from Train to Pakistan (1956) by Khushwant Singh. The extract has been titled ‘Mano Majra Station’ in this anthology
Manoj Das for ‘The Intimate Demon’ (1985)
Intizar Husain for ‘A Stranded Railroad Car’ from The Colour of Nothingness (Penguin India, 1992)
Sandip Ray for ‘Barin Bhowmik’s Ailment’ from 20 Stories by Satyajit Ray (Penguin India, 1992)
Bill Aitken for ‘Balbir Arora Goes Metric’ (1992)
R.K. Laxman for the extract from The Messenger by R.K. Laxman (Penguin India, 1993). The extract has been titled ‘Railway Reverie’ in this anthology
Victor Banerjee for ‘Cherry Choo-Choo’ (1994)
Manojit Mitra for ‘99 UP’ (1994)
While every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and obtain permission, this has not been possible in all cases; and omissions brought to our attention will be remedied in future editions.
* * *
The editor’s special thanks to Rima Handa for her invaluable help in compiling this anthology.
