Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls

by Anirban Bose

  She returned to her seat at the edge of the bunk, this time with her son in her lap.

  The baby’s back was turned towards them. She held the child close to her face and started playing with him. She mollycoddled him, gurgling childish gibberish while rubbing her face on his chest and tummy, and tickling him into throes of laughter. She played with him, laughing and smiling as though, for those few moments, she and her child existed without a shred of concern in a picture-perfect world. Then, smiling proudly, she turned her boy to face them.

  The little boy had a silly senseless grin on his face. His eyes wandered in their sockets, as though unable to tether themselves to anything purposeful in their field of vision. Even at fifteen months, his neck was unable to support the weight of his head, and lolled to one side, sending clear white saliva dribbling out of the corner on to her sari. A few deformed teeth showed from behind the thin lips that showed no signs of forming any meaningful words.

  Steadying him with her hands, she peeked out from behind his head, smiling at the five of them with immeasurable pride.

  For a few seconds none of them could react. Then smiling briefly, they hurriedly looked away, their overwhelming shame feeling like a stinging slap on their faces.

  By the time they crossed Gondia, their train was already four hours behind schedule. Adi worried constantly about the possibility of missing the connecting Kamrup express and having to make the twenty-four-hour journey to Guwahati in the unreserved compartment of some other train.

  It was past ten at night when their train slowed down to a halt for no apparent reason. When Adi looked out through the window, he could see little other than a set of parallel tracks separated by a small ditch, full of rocks and brush. His concern about these unscheduled stop-starts adding to the overall delay was lost on the others who sat huddled together, absorbed in a game of cards.

  After a few minutes, Adi saw the headlights of a train light up the neighbouring tracks. The reason for their stop suddenly became clear to him. They were letting another train go ahead of theirs to use the same tracks. Adi grimaced with irritation. But his irritation turned to anger when he noticed on the sides of the compartments, printed in English and Hindi, the name of the overtaking train. It was the Gitanjali.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ he fumed. ‘They are letting the Gitanjali go ahead of us! That train left Bombay this morning…and we have been travelling for almost twenty-four hours!’

  The others didn’t react, reserving their attention for the card game.

  Suddenly, Adi noticed that the Gitanjali was slowing down too. Then it came to a complete stop on the parallel track.

  Adi jumped at the chance. ‘Guys!’ he shouted, ‘let’s cross over to the Gitanjali! This may be our only chance to make the Kamrup Express from Calcutta!’

  The others looked at him as though they had just woken up from sleep.

  ‘Adi, there is no platform…we are in the middle of nowhere!’ protested Sam. ‘If we get off this train and don’t make it to the Gitanjali, and then this train leaves, we’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere!’

  ‘That’s why we need to go now! No arguments, Sam! Let’s go! Now!’

  They began gathering their belongings, now lying scattered all over the coupe. Adi couldn’t find his shirt while Sam looked desperately for his shoes. Pheru had the toughest time trying to repack his suitcase. Hurriedly they began heading towards the exit.

  As he turned to leave, Adi’s eyes fell on Aruna. She was staring at them from her berth, her eyes filled with anxiety.

  Adi groaned. He had completely forgotten about her. He tried to explain the urgency in their situation. He explained that she would reach Bhilai in another three hours, and since the Gitanjali wouldn’t stop in Bhilai, she should stay on this train with her child.

  She nodded, unconvinced, and looked at Harsha.

  Harsha waited for the others to leave the bogie. He walked over towards Aruna, took out a handful of money from his wallet and handed it over to her. Then he picked up Aruna’s son, held him tightly and kissed him on the cheeks. Aruna began to cry.

  Harsha handed her son back and said, ‘You are so brave, Aruna. I…I wish my mother had been this brave. But both of us were so scared of him!’

  Adi shouted from outside, ‘Harsha! Chal yaar…let’s go!’

  Harsha picked up his bags to make the mad dash to the other train.

  As they ran across the brush and rock-filled space in between the two trains in slippers and undershirts, the Gitanjali started to move. They searched desperately for a compartment with unlocked doors. Unable to find any, they clambered onto the guard’s cabin. The guard was in the midst of a meal and came out protesting their unauthorized entry on a ‘superfast’ train. Despite his objections they clambered on quickly, fairly certain that the man wouldn’t dare throw five young guys onto the tracks in the middle of nowhere.

  As the Gitanjali started pulling away slowly, they could see Aruna staring at them from a window, tightly holding onto the iron grille that spanned the opening. They waved goodbye. Adi’s heart was heavy with the thought of her uncertain future, and yet something in him rejoiced at her liberation. And he refused to believe that those tears rolling down her cheeks were anything other than tears of joy at her newfound freedom.

  The ticket collector let them into the main bogies after charging them a ‘superfast fee’. Sam’s sudden crying spell as he relayed the tragic story of Toshi’s death evoked neither sympathy nor a discount. They managed to find two empty berths on the train and took turns to sleep.

  When it was Adi’s turn to be awake, he started writing his first letter to Isha.

  Dear Isha,

  I miss you.

  Sometimes I cannot believe that we have begun this trip to meet Toshi’s parents. Nagaland almost seems like another country, doesn’t it? And then, travelling with this group that I can barely talk to! But it’s been surprisingly calm…in fact it is turning out to be quite an adventure already.

  Harsha helped save a young girl from her abusive husband. I was so impressed by his courage. He stood there and faced four men with nothing but the courage of his convictions…just like Atticus. I think his act not only won the girl’s freedom, but his own redemption from his past. I had underestimated him, Isha. I thought of him as nothing more than Rajeev’s unabashed fan. But I was wrong.

  I don’t know what will become of the girl or her mentally retarded child as she makes her way alone, but I would like to believe that her story has a happy ending. Sometimes, I wish I had a magic wand that I could wave and right all the things that are wrong in this world. But shouldn’t God be doing that?

  I am just rambling on…

  Not much space in these postcards to write more, but there is so much more to write. So let me say what needs to be said urgently: I miss you very much.

  Adi.

  PS: I haven’t opened the envelope yet, and the laddoos were delicious.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Gitanjali, which makes a two-thousand-kilometre journey in twenty-eight hours, is a super- fast train only by the standards of the Indian Railways. Travelling across the widest part of the country, its reputation as a super-fast makes it a ready object of abuse at the hands of the proletariat. From the politician protesting the denial of a party ticket in the upcoming election, to the local college students protesting a tough examination, the Gitanjali is a sitting duck for the ‘sit- down-on-the-tracks’ form of protest called rail roko.

  It was their ill-luck the next day, when a bunch of slogan-shouting, flag-carrying men, in white kurta-pajamas and open black sandals, decided to protest the vicissitudes of the local train timings by sitting in front of the Gitanjali’s tracks, just outside Howrah. It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon and the train hadn’t budged in the thirty minutes Adi had spent listening to the slogans emanating from the group in front. Their connecting train to Guwahati would depart in another half-hour. From their compartment, Adi could see the beginnings
of the Howrah station platforms, the length of three or four soccer fields away.

  Adi cursed his luck and rued the invention of brakes on the train: the Gitanjali could otherwise have resolved the nuisance of thoughtless public protest so effectively.

  ‘Guys,’ he said, ‘let’s pack our stuff and walk to the station. That is the only way we can make it to the Kamrup Express on time… It leaves at 5.30.’

  The others looked at their watches uncertainly, as though delaying the decision would alter the train’s inertia.

  ‘Come on, guys!’ urged Adi. ‘We don’t have much time!’

  He picked up his bag and got off the train. One by one, the others followed suit.

  They began walking along the rock-filled gutters next to the tracks. It had rained some hours ago and an angry, white sun beat down on them from a clear blue sky. The winds had died, leaving the muggy air around them in rigor mortis. Adi’s handkerchief fought a losing battle against the sweat sprouting on his forehead. Pheru was having a hard time keeping his bulky suitcase above the stagnant water next to the tracks. But Sam, being stocky and overweight, suffered the most. He stopped every so often, rested his hands on his knees, and panted like he was breathing his last. Within a few minutes, all of them were soaked in sweat.

  They were about a hundred yards from the platform when the Gitanjali’s huge wheels started to moan and squeal, as though protesting being awakened from the restful nap. Surprised, Adi looked ahead. The train’s path was now clear. In a fitting testament to the agitators’ dedication to their cause, the demonstrators had dispersed spontaneously because it was past 5 p.m. — time to head home for dinner.

  They clambered back onto the train, thanking their stars that they wouldn’t have to make the rest of the journey on foot. Their clothes stuck to their bodies in a sticky salty mess. Adi looked at his watch again. It was 5:15 p.m. He sighed imagining what awaited them.

  At five every afternoon, Howrah station turns into a madhouse, filled with local commuters eager to get home. Chaos reigns supreme for the next couple of hours, as the timings and platforms of local trains are displayed on giant boards or announced over jarring loudspeakers. People mill about in confusion, trying to decipher the message in those frazzled announcements. Long-distance travellers walk about with their cartloads of luggage, trying to sort through the jumble of train names and numbers. Beggars tag behind them interminably: the desire for good auspices before undertaking a long journey usually brings out the altruistic best in people. Piles of freight – from cotton bales to fresh fish – are pushed about the platform with scant regard for anyone in their path. Stray cows, goats and dogs wander about at will, their acclimatization to such chaos evident in their lackadaisical canter.

  Adi knew that it would take nothing short of a miracle for them to make their way across several platforms in these milling crowds and reach the Kamrup Express on time. He turned to address the others. ‘The Kamrup is part of the North East railway division and so the platform is farther off. Get ready, guys. We have to make a run for it, otherwise it will leave by the time we get there.’

  The Gitanjali entered its platform at exactly half past five. They jumped off the still moving train, and began to run. The sight of the chaotic crowds disheartened Adi, and he prayed for a much-needed miracle. Their miracle came in the form of Sam who, inexplicably inspired after having recovered his breath, hoisted his bag above his head and began to run, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘MOOOVE’. Seeing his bulky frame with the bag over his head barreling towards them, people quickly moved out of his path. Sam’s personal hygiene had a significant contribution to the way the sea of humanity parted. The rest of them followed in his shadow, like ducklings trailing their mother. They made the distance in record time and found the Kamrup getting ready to leave. Grinning with relief, they clambered on board just as the train began to move.

  The compartments were packed. Somehow they dragged their luggage to their coupe. To their surprise, all their seats were occupied. Adi pulled out his reservation slip and checked again. He confirmed the numbers…S-6, seats 41-46.

  Adi turned to the men sitting in their seats. Tired, hungry and dirty, he easily skipped the part about being polite. ‘Those seats are ours!’ he said.

  Some of them looked at Adi, then looked away as though he was selling a packet of peanuts rather than demanding his seat. Their collective cold shoulder annoyed Adi.

  ‘I said these seats are ours!’ he shouted.

  ‘Hold it, young man,’ said one of them. ‘We are local passengers; we’ll get off after a few stations.’

  Adi couldn’t believe their gall. But his irritation turned to anger when he spotted the familiar white kurta pajamas and open black sandals…these guys were behind the protest that had delayed the Gitanjali.

  Adi felt blood rushing into his head and his temples start to throb. ‘Get up right now!’ he demanded angrily. ‘Those seats are ours. We have the tickets!’

  A murmur of infuriation arose amongst the locals. Drawing strength from their numbers, their anger seemed to acquire a justification of their own reckoning. They looked angrily at Adi.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘You’ve bought tickets, not the whole railways!’

  ‘Your father owns Indian railways?’

  Some of them started to gesticulate at Adi angrily.

  Adi realized he was challenging the lion in his den. They were far away from home, amongst a bunch of people who commuted this route daily, who could muster trouble at a moment’s notice and outnumbered them ten to one.

  But Adi couldn’t care less…his anger clouded all judgment.

  Pheru came from behind and said, ‘Cool it, Adi…these guys are locals…’

  ‘So what?’ shouted Adi. ‘What’ll they do…kill me? Saala bastards… I’ll die for my seat!’

  Sam quickly positioned himself between Adi and the men. Pheru pulled Adi back towards Harsha and Rajeev who promptly restrained him. Adi tried to free himself from Rajeev’s clasp.

  Then he heard Sam address the local commuters in a gentle voice. ‘Look, please excuse my friend. We have been travelling from Bombay for three days now. We are going all the way to Nagaland and we are very tired. All we would like is that you give us our seats, and then we can try and adjust to get most of you to sit with us.’

  Sam’s politeness only served to heighten their absurd outrage.

  ‘Too bad and too late! Your friend should have spoken nicely, like you. We also travel this route every day and we have been working the whole day too. You’ll just have to wait for us to get off!’

  ‘Yeah! We travel this route every day.’

  ‘Where will we sit?’

  ‘And look at you…you will take the place of four people when you sit.’

  ‘I can sit on your lap, if you let me…you look like you have a lot of cushion,’ said someone and the snickers turned to outright laughter.

  Adi peeked at Sam; he was laughing with them. Adi wondered for the hundredth time how Sam always managed to laugh about everything. How could he possibly see any humour in his belittlement?

  Then Sam smiled sweetly at one of them and said, ‘Is it okay if I stand in front of my seat?’

  Unsure of what to say, the man nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sam. Then, clambering over crossed legs and tightly packed bodies, Sam positioned himself right in front of the person he had addressed. He leaned over in front of the man, lifted his arms, rested his elbows on the bunk above his head, and flanked the man’s face with his sweat-stained armpits. Then, with his face inches away from the man’s nose, Sam started breathing through his mouth. Adi noticed his extra effort to exhale.

  Adi didn’t dare wonder what Sam’s body and breath must have smelled like. Three days of accumulated perspiration and not having brushed his teeth for the last six years had a profound effect. If Adi had not seen it that day with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have ever believed a human being’s
reaction to such olfactory torment. The man in front of Sam could neither breathe nor hold his breath: he was turning green if he did and blue if he didn’t.

  Sam continued to smile and breathe on him. Soon the man wheezed an apologetic ‘you can sit here’ to Sam, abandoned his seat and desperately lunged for some fresh air.

  Sam had no intention of sitting down. He motioned for Adi to come and occupy the seat. Adi immediately did, after which Sam assumed the same position in front of the guy sitting next to him. Nobody lasted more than a few minutes of Sam’s torture. The beauty of Sam’s method was its indolent effectiveness – most people couldn’t understand why these men were abandoning their seats so meekly. But they did, and with astonishing regularity. Sam even offered his lap to the person who had suggested it as a seating solution, only to be turned down rather hurriedly.

  Within fifteen minutes, the entire row was empty, leaving the five of them with ample room to rest their weary behinds. Sam stretched out his legs and arms to relish the abundant space around him, the smile on his face ringing with the sweetness of his victory.

  As the local passengers stared at them angrily, the train rushed on though the countryside, tearing through the darkness of the evening. Adi put his face next to the open window and took a deep breath. A beautiful earthly scent floated in. He recognized the smell. It smelled of victory.

  He began writing another letter to Isha.

  My dear Isha,

  I miss you very much.

  We are on our way to Guwahati from Calcutta. The journey to Calcutta itself almost didn’t take place. We just managed to make it to the Kamrup on time thanks to Sam’s inspired charge like a raging bull. On the Kamrup, I learned how not bathing or brushing your teeth can be a deadly secret weapon. (I’ll explain when I get back, but believe me, it is remarkable). In fact, it makes me wonder: if Mahatma Gandhi had preached that seven hundred million Indians should not take a bath or clean themselves for days before his satyagrahas, maybe the British would have left this big, beautiful country in our hands a few years earlier.