The evening sun put on such a show of flaming shades across the sky that one could be forgiven for thinking it was Hawaii, not Mumbai. But the heat and the dust stopped that drift abruptly.
Aparajita now regretted having ventured out to the suburbs on a post-lunch whim. Four miserable hours later, she stood outside the giant steel and concrete ogre that was the National Social Sciences Institute, waltzing forwards and backwards but not able to find that precise moment of self-belief and fortitude someone new to a city seeks to cross a busy street. She gave up and hailed an auto. Two crawled over. Aparajita settled on the autowallah combing his hennaed beard.
‘Kandivali Station, Baba.’
‘Baithiyay,’ said the old man.
His compatriot, a young man in khakhi overalls with a grimy tea towel slung on his shoulder, looked on patiently from inside his auto. Seeing Aparajita climb into Baba’s auto, the young man yanked his floor starter in a single, almost militant move. The auto roared to life, sputtering all the while he waited for Baba to give way.
But the old man’s auto refused to shunt. The young man could hear the thudding sound that every yank of the starting lever made as it fell back on the floor. He climbed out from his auto and came over.
‘Kya hua, Baba?’ he asked. ‘Has she been misbehaving lately?’
Aparajita smirked at the use of the female gender. She eased back on the taut Rexine, noticing, despite herself, a feeling of fondness accumulate inside her for the two men.
‘Arey beta, it is Haj time now for the two of us,’ joked Baba, patting the handlebar affectionately.
The young man laughed and offered Baba some Rajnigandha, which he accepted matter-of-factly, extending his palm for a few taps of the sachet, then flinging the rubble down his mouth.
Now what, thought Api, curious.
The young man said to baba, ‘Chalo, I’ll leave you till the station.’
Baba said, ‘You will?’
What did he mean by ‘I’ll leave you’, wondered Api. ‘Surely he meant, ‘I’ll take the passenger?’
The young man now returned to his auto. Api heard the thud of the starting lever and the eruption of noise at her back.
Then, with Baba in his driver’s seat—keeping the handlebar even with his left arm even as he dislodged a Rajnigandha remnant from his teeth with the polished nail of his little finger—and Api displaying open-mouthed bewilderment, their auto lurched forward. There it went, gaining momentum, carrying Baba and Api merrily along. It would maintain a reasonable pace and then leisurely, on its own, die, upon which the man following behind would reconnect their auto with his left foot.
The two autos, like a couple, stumbled forward in staggered formation.
It was the ox pushing the cart, and to Api, it was wonderful. The young man, she realised, wasn’t going to let Baba to lose his earnings; he wouldn’t steal Baba’s passenger away.
With every gentle push to her auto from the man’s left foot, Api could feel the lump in her throat increase. Soon, she was contrasting her life with that of the autowallahs; the reasons why she had come to Mumbai, her terrible loneliness. Api felt she had nothing, possessed no one. And these autowallahs—happiness and brotherhood. And what of their benefactor’s time and petrol? She could have cried, but she was afraid Baba would hear her and turn around and start a conversation.
Baba asked, seeing the station come into view, ‘Where shall I drop you, beti?’ unmindful that the man trailing behind in his auto was the one doing the taxiing.
‘Bas here, Baba,’ mumbled Api. She wanted to get down and find a spot where she could cry unseen.
‘Achha,’ said Baba and whistled, loud enough for the man doing the kicking to hear it. With one last punt he let go of Baba’s auto. His job done, the man revved the accelerator and disappeared down the road without once looking back.
Baba applied the brakes and the auto came to a stop right in front of the station entrance.
There was no way Api could say a word, so she thrust a hundred-rupee note into Baba’s palm and ran for the platform, refusing to hear the cries behind her: ‘Arey beti, this is too much. Arey beti, wait.’
The evening crowd watched as Api skipped the stairway two steps at a time. A line of jostling and elbowing people formed either side of her. Some thought it was a movie take—the heroine jumping off the auto and rushing in to catch the train slipping away with her beloved.
Api asked a man who was staring at her, ‘Bhaiya, which platform for the CST local?’
‘Here it comes,’ said the man, pointing in the direction of the approaching train.
Api ran to the counter and bought a ticket. Because she was going in the opposite direction—towards the city centre—the crowd was manageable. She climbed into the ladies’ compartment and searched her way in slowly, looking out of the barred windows, taking in the cool evening breeze. She spotted an agreeable space and sat down.
Across her, two women were talking.
‘Arey, just hand me that methi, Kamla,’ said one.
‘Here,’ replied the other while tossing the greens in the air. ‘Not much of a bundle for six rupees, is it?’
‘Arey, this is loot maar, I tell you; we’ll be eating grass next.’
‘You don’t listen, didi, do you? Why do you keep buying vegetables from Iqbal? I am sure he has a magnet stuck under his pan. Look—this is never one kilo.’
‘Yes, you are right—maybe 800, 750 even…Oh, namaste ji. Hello.’
Api smiled at the women. ‘Hello.’
‘I hope we are not boring you with our chit-chat.’
‘No no, not at all.’
‘I am Shakti ben and this here is Kamla. And you?’
‘Aparajita. Aparajita Biswas.’
‘Bungali?’
‘My husband is.’
‘And you?’
‘Madrasi.’
Shakti ben drew her breath in. ‘No. Really?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You are not that dark. And you have fish-shaped eyes. You look more like a Bungali to me. I find you are very attractive.’
Api laughed. ‘Well, thank you Shatki ben. That’s very kind of you. You should tell this to my husband.’
‘Shouldn’t do that—they get very possessive otherwise; start behaving as if their wife is Aishwarya Rai, no less.’
‘So you think it’s better to be ugly in front of your husband?’
‘If you can help it.’
‘Hah, thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.’
Shakti ben commenced the plucking of methi leaves. ‘You are not from Mumbai, right?’
‘Yes. How did you guess?’
‘You are sweating like anything.’
Aparajita reached for her pallu and glanced upwards. ‘I wish the fans were working. How long till CST?’
‘Plenty—at least twelve stops in-between. You’ll reach CST by eight-thirty. Is somebody coming to pick you up?’
‘What? No, I’ll take a taxi.’
The interrogation continued. ‘Here on vacation?’
‘I thought I was, but all I have seen this past week is Gateway. And today’s Elephanta trip also got cancelled.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, with my husband. These vegetables…?’
Shakti ben cleared her sinuses and raised her head. ‘Arey, this is our daily routine. Where’s the time these days, you tell me, haan. We’ll reach home by nine, with kids darting all over, screaming dinner, dinner. This is the only way to save some time, Aparajita ben.’
‘That’s clever.’
‘You can see our preparations for tonight’s dinner: Methi matar and aloo gobi…What does your husband do?’
‘He’s a police officer.’
‘My family has a few policemen but not one posted in Mumbai. My rotten luck. Life would have been so much easier.’
‘I suppose.’
Shakti ben wiped her nose on her blouse sleeve. ‘And what about you? Do you work?’
‘I am a lecturer at Delhi University.’
‘I thought so. You look like a lecturer. Where is the sari from?’
‘Fabindia. It’s Rajasthani print.’
‘You should come to our Gujarat. Our prints are the best.’
‘If I may ask, Shakti ben, what do you do?’
‘Arey don’t be so shy, Aparajita ben. Ask, ask anything.’
‘Yes, well…’
‘Both Kamla and I work in a jewellery shop in Borivali. Seven to seven, every day except Sunday. But I hate Sundays—that’s when I have to listen to all this jhik-jhik of my husband and kids. Monday to Saturday I am my own rani. The only jhik-jhik I have to listen to is of my darling Kamla. Kyon ri, Kamla?’
Kamla nodded.
‘Twelve hours, and Saturdays, too—that’s a tough life, Shakti ben.’
‘Arey, I am lucky I have this job. So many women I know are stuck in their matchboxes, poor things. This way, I am away from all that. And today was my weekly trip to the beauty parlour, too…See?’
Shakti ben brought her face forward and craned her neck. ‘Nice, no. And see, see the brows? Ten rupees only.’
‘Haan, good job. A practiced hand.’
Shakti ben gesticulated with the bundle of methi in her hand. ‘And my husband? He doesn’t even notice these things.’
‘Shakti ben, everyone’s looking at us. A bit softer please…’
‘Arey, Aparajita ben, these are all my friends. I know each and every one of them.’
Aparajita glanced around the bay. ‘Surely not…’
‘With my eyes closed, then what. They are my life, Aparajita ben—the happiest time of my day is spent here, in their company, in this ladies’ compartment, slicing vegetables and chopping onions. Even if I was sacked from my job, I’ll keep taking this train every day without fail. Kyon, Kamla. No, Durga?
‘That beauty sitting on your left? That’s Durga ben. Her husband is a dabbawallah, and over the years, he has come to know of some amazing recipes—and now because of Durga, I know of them, too.’
Aparajita turned to her left. ‘Hello, Durga ben. Aparajita.’
‘Namaste, Aparajita ben.’
Shakti ben pointed across the bay with a cauliflower. ‘And that one by the window? That’s Madhu. Marathi. She makes the best srikhand in the whole world.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘This coach is my true home. This is the real Mumbai. People—it’s the people who make the city.’
Aparajita tucked a lock behind her ear and smiled. ‘How true.’
Shakti ben reorganised her bulk and settled it in the lotus position. ‘So, tell me…how long have you been married? You have any children?’
Aparajita was taken aback with this new and bizarre line of questioning. Out of politeness but with an unsure voice, she answered: ‘Er, since ‘93—eleven years. No, no children.’
‘Eleven years. And when were you engaged?’
‘Engaged. Oh, let me think…1990.’
‘Three years you waited? That’s too long.’
‘That’s what Ajay—my husband—thought.’
‘But you didn’t think likewise. And why no children? You’ll need them when you are sixty. And how old are you? Arey, don’t be shy. I am forty-nine myself.’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Now it’s too late to have children. But why don’t you have any?’
Aparajita was beginning to have second thoughts about this newly found friendship. She recalled her train journey across Europe a few years ago where, for five days and five nights, across nineteen countries, with countless different cuisines to comment upon, with the ever-changing weather to despair at, new languages, different dialects, not one person exchanged a word with her. Not one person, not one word. And now this.
‘Er, Shakti ben, if you—if you don’t mind…’
‘Arey Aparajita ben, why are you feeling shy, haan? Tell me—will I get down with you at CST? Am I going to follow you all the way to Delhi?’
‘No no…’
‘Then? Listen, too often we think we don’t want to talk to anyone, that we are alright as it is. But you know, that’s where this ladies’ compartment comes in. I was just like you on the first day that I started using this train. And let me tell you, there was this wonderful woman called Tulsi ben—passed away last year—and it was just like this. Me shy, like you, and Tulsi ben, sitting opposite, just like I am now. And she told me the words that I am telling you now.
‘…Life is too short. Only strangers become our true friends. They want nothing in return. They know the other person is going to get off in a minute and will be gone forever. They just lend their ears. They are, strangers are, the most unselfish people you can find.’
Aparajita could feel a tug at her heart. This was a new experience for her, opening up to someone she had met a minute ago. And she had to agree that Shakti ben’s words said had a ring of truth to them. The world is full of kind and warm people, she thought, and it has taken me fifteen years and a train and an auto ride to find two of them. She nodded thoughtfully.
‘…And she said, “Shakti ben, use this time as your Amritanjan. Tell us your problems, your worries. Use me. Use us, Shakti ben.”’
Aparajita placed her elbows on her thighs and cupped her cheeks. ‘How wonderful.’
Shakti ben wiped her brow. ‘Yes, and I tell you, Aparajita ben, I cried—there and then. The tears wouldn’t stop. I told her everything, absolutely everything. There was so much to tell. And she, and Bimla ben, and Kanta ben—they took it all; like Bhagwan Shiv, they drank all that poison. And suddenly I felt so free, so alive; all my sadness went out of this very window you see here.’
‘That’s so wonderful.’
‘And I haven’t looked back since. You can say I am the sarpanch of this compartment; maybe because of my age, or maybe because, before she left us for heaven, Tulsi ben made it known. And this is the best responsibility I have had in my entire life. Durga ben here knows more about me than my husband ever will.’
‘Arey Shakti, I also know more about your husband than you ever will.’
Shakti ben flung a pea at Durga. ‘Durga, you mui...So you see, Aparajita ben. In your world you pay thousands just so you can go and talk to—what do you call them—yes, mind doctors. You pay thousands. In here, it is free. And let me tell you, we might not be doctors, but when patients get together to share their problems, who needs a doctor?’
Aparajita could have cried. ‘You people are amazing, Shakti ben.’
Shakti ben smiled. ‘So, now…’
‘Anything. Just ask anything.’
‘Why no children?’
‘I can’t have any.’
‘Who said so—the doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t believe a word of him. I know a swamiji—not your nakli sadhu type. I’ll take you to him. I’ll take care of all costs, don’t worry. You just tell me when we can go.’
‘Really, that’s too kind of you, Shakti ben. But we have been to a hundred hospitals, done a thousand tests. We may go for adoption sometime soon, maybe; yes, maybe.’
‘As you wish, Aparajita ben. Still, give my offer a thought. Dauktary hasn’t got the cure for everything—and you know where to find me.’
‘That I do. Thanks, Shakti ben. I think I could cry now.’
Shakti ben reached over and patted Aparajita on her thigh. ‘Arey arey, get a hold on yourself, Aparajita ben.’
‘Yes…thank you for this, Shakti ben. You do not know how much you…’
Shakti ben massaged the thigh lovingly. ‘Bas, bas, Aparajita, bas, bas.’
Aparajita hadn’t realised the train had hardly moved in the past half-hour. Now she noticed they had stopped altogether. The train rocked and pitched, making her extend her hands and grab the window bars.
Slowly, tiredly, they began to move again.
Shakti ben pushed the baby cauliflowers away and cleared some space for the next assignment. ‘Pass me the matar, Kamla…Unusually slow today, isn’t it.’
‘Oh, I know why, didi. It’s because of that rail minister. I read in the newspaper while you were getting your eyebrows done. Flagging off a new train, he is today. All lines to the south will be like this.’
‘These ministers. Who cares if thousands are home late in this heat. Our Aparajita will miss her dinner now…’
‘Arey no no, Shakti ben.’
‘Was it love marriage?’
The query jolted even the softened-up Aparajita. ‘Hmm? Sorry, what, Shakti ben?’
‘Was yours a love marriage?’
‘Oh, haha. Yes, I suppose you can say that.’
Shakti ben clucked her tongue. ‘Oh, I know. Your husband was a rebound, your second choice.’
Aparajita was too shocked to answer. Shocked because of the outrageous candidness—shocked because it was true.
‘I can see it, Aparajita ben, I can feel it. Behind that calm face, there’s just the opposite in that mind of yours. You loved someone else, didn’t you? You loved that man to death, didn’t you? And that man ditched you, like they all do in the end.’
Aparajita shook her head vehemently, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘No no, it wasn’t like that—at all—no it wasn’t…’
‘But you loved him to death.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you ditched him?’
‘No.’
‘Then? He fell into a ditch?’
‘T-thaa.’
Shaki ben was unrelenting. ‘The family, wasn’t it? Your family? His family?’
‘My fam…’
‘Your family? Why. Was he no good? Did he not have a job?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. He was fantastic. And yes, he loved me to death and I loved him beyond death and everything was right—his job, his future…’
Shakti ben was on the edge of her seat. ‘What were you before you became a Biswas? I mean, baaman, bania, what?’
‘It wasn’t me; it was my father.’
‘Oh.’
‘And my mother.’
‘Bhagwaan…’
Aparajita sobbed into a bunched-up pallu end. ‘I couldn’t do a thing. I lost the battle.’
‘No you didn’t. You ran away is what you mean. I have seen it happen so many times.’
‘It wasn’t as simple as that, Shakti ben. My father swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills—right in front of my eyes…’
‘Hey Bhagwan. Kalyug…kalyug.’
‘And then, right there, he passed on the bottle to my mother, who without as much as batting an eyelid, swallowed the rest.’
‘Kalyug…kalyug.’
‘Both my parents landed up in the ICU.’
‘Hey Ram.’
‘My mother went into a coma…they couldn’t save my father.’
‘Ram…hey Ram.’
‘That last moment with my father—he held my hand but he couldn’t speak. He had the ventilator on with all that oxygen mask…’
‘Ram…’
‘But he said what he wanted to through his eyes. He said what he wanted to, I was sure.’
‘I am very sorry, Aparajita ben…’
‘My whole world, everything, destroyed in a matter of days…’
‘Very, very sorry.’
‘Suddenly I was the sole breadwinner. An invalid mother, wheelchair bound, who also talked to me only through her eyes. And the talk wasn’t kind. Eyes, do you know, can speak a lot?’
‘…I understand, Aparajita ben.’
‘Anyway…that was the last time I met Akhil—until now...’
‘Akhil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. And all this was in…’
‘1990.’
‘And where was your husband in all this?’
‘No, he didn’t picture in all this. Me, Akhil, him—we were the best of friends.’
Shakti ben had stopped shedding the pea pods a long time ago. ‘So, how did you and your husband…’
Aparajita smothered her runny nose with her upper arm. ‘He was the only other man in my mother’s eyes. She wrote down his name on a piece of paper after I had pretended not to understand her when her eyes kept pointing to Ajay.’
‘Oh…’
‘Nothing could be done or delayed further. My fate was sealed.’
‘But you did delay it—the marriage, I mean. A full three years beyond your engagement.’
‘That was the period in which I got all those tests done.’
‘Oh…Tell me, Aparajita ben—did you love your husband then? Do you love him now?’
Sepia flashbacks rushed through Aparajita’s mind in response to that question, browned and blotched and tattered stills from her life: school school college college college Ajay Akhil Ajay Akhil Akhil Akhil Amma Appa Amma hands hands held held Ajay Akhil Akhil kiss loving arms longing arms kiss kiss Akhil roof moon moon tree moon shade rains rains Akhil Appa Appa Ajay loving longing longing Akhil crying crying fan fan rope fan Akhil crying longing Akhil Ajay Akhil…Akhil.
The roulette ground to a halt.
‘No.’
‘And do you still love this, this other…Akhil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, why…why?’
Aparajita hid her face in her hands and cried.
‘I think I know, Aparajita ben. You delayed your marriage so you could get all those tests done. And after you knew, you thought, you have got nothing to offer Akhil. And you still think that? Even after all these years, you still think that? Do you? Is that what marriage means to you? Children? And that, too, blood children, Aparajita ben?’
‘It is a lot more complicated than that, Shakti ben, a lot more…’
‘Tell me. Let me drink all your poison.’
Aparajita closed her eyes and opened them again, to allow the tears to dribble away. ‘I know my Akhil. I know he loves me still, but after all that happened to me, my family, after what they said and did, I sat back and realised—what you meant just now. Of course, marriage isn’t just children, of course not. But if you can see from my eyes, my marriage to Akhil would have been a selfish act on my part. The companionship of marriage, the comfort and satisfaction that one expects from it…One thinks, “That’s the one for me”, and the man thinks exactly the same thing and we choose each other from a sea of people. We choose a partner because we expect something in return—the companionship and the safety of it. I realised I wanted Akhil for me…’
‘But Aparajita ben, that’s one way of looking at it. Didn’t he want you, too? Of course, he did.’
‘Yes, of course. That urge to be together, to get married, to stay together—that urge is based on self-interest.’
‘But it’s the same between any man and woman; just the truth, that’s all.’
‘Yes, but I wanted to give him something. I felt my whole life was meant to give him that one thing.’
‘What. A child?’
‘Yes, but not just a child…’
‘So what if you cannot bear one—there’s nothing more noble and fulfilling as adoption.’
‘Yes, you are right, Shakti ben. But it wasn’t just the question of giving him a child.’
‘Then?’
Aparajita pinched her hand in anguish. ‘Oh, how can I tell you…You won’t understand.’
‘Try me; tell it to your sister.’
‘I…’
‘Bolo…’
‘I wanted to dilute his blood. Oh, it’s too warped, the thinking. You’ll hate me; you are hating me already.’
Shakti ben came over to sit next to Aparajita. She pulled Aparajita’s head with both her hands and placed it on her shoulder. ‘No I am not, Aparajita ben. I don’t understand at all, what you just said, but I respect you for having fought all this way, for having tried all options…But make me understand.’
‘It’s too difficult, Shakti ben. I don’t even know how I told you what I just did. I haven’t told it to anyone before, not even Akhil.’
Shakti ben got up and returned to her seat. ‘…So what is it, what did you mean when you said dilute…’
‘For you to understand this, I would have to tell you thousands of years of our history, the history that, in one sense, can’t be termed as such, because it is still the present. It is not history, Shakti ben, but to the present, it is the curse of history…
‘Who can erase it? Who can make us ignore it? No one. People have tried—great mahatmas have tried. But the mahatma left and this curse stayed.
‘Education, learning, knowledge—they have got nothing to do with it. It inflicts us all; rich and poor, illiterate and learned, landowner and landless, man and woman, child and the newborn.
‘We are born with it—that taveez that’s tied to the limb of a newborn, it is that, that is this curse. And it was my failure to change the way my people thought about this curse; it was under this curse—as a child of this curse—that I thought, what my best offering to my Akhil was not just the offer of my hand for him to hold and walk in times good and bad; not the offer of my body for him to fulfil his physical desires; the best I could give to him, I thought was my silent protest, my retort: the offer to dilute his cursed blood…’
‘Cursed blood? What do you…’
‘Not to wipe out his sorrows for him, not to win his battles for him, but an offering to remove the weight of this curse from his children instead. To halve it, with the hope that with time, it would get halved again, and again, and again, and again, until one day, the cursed blood of Akhil would no longer flow in any living vein; it would be diluted, gone, erased...
‘And when I found out that I couldn’t even offer that little to him, I gave in to my mother’s eyes, and became Ajay’s wife.’
‘But who—what is, this Akhil of yours? What is his curse, as you say?’
‘Oh, Shakti ben, that’s all for another journey.’
‘Still…’
‘He is a Chamaar.’
‘A what?’
‘A Chamaar.’
Shakti ben let out a scream. ‘Bhagwaan. Hey Bhagwaan…hey Ram…Harey Ram! Oh, Aparajita ben—hey Sita Maiyaa. Of all the people—Aparajita, Aparajita ben. Of all the men to choose from in this world. Of all the…’
‘I can see even you aren’t unaffected by this curse. It’s impossible for you, too…’
‘Oh, Aparajita ben, but it has to be. It must be so—impossible. It is the way of the world. Ben, ben, ben…And what has become of him, this Chamaar.’
Aparajita clutched the edge of the bench and squeezed hard. ‘Akhil. His name is Akhil.’
‘Yes, well, what has…’
‘Well, it’s a long story, too long, Shakti ben…Almost 8.30. Look, it’s pitch dark outside…’
Shakti ben turned her head and looked out. ‘Yes, it is.’
Something caught Aparajita’s eye, something strange. ‘Except for the light coming from the coaches of that train. Isn’t it odd, what you see? Two trains running side by side, maintaining similar speed…’
Shakti ben had also noticed this curious occurrence. ‘Haan, it is certainly strange.’ She wanted to return to the discussion but Aparajita was transfixed.
‘…look…total darkness, but you can see those people by the light of their compartments. A parallel world, a different set, a…a…Oh my God. Oh God! Did you…Did you see that?!’
Shakti ben jumped out of her seat. ‘Oh God, yes! Hey Bhagwaan! Harey Ram! Kalyug!’
The whole bay had seen it. Small girls came rushing in and gripped the window bars and tried to push their heads through for a better look.
‘Shakti ben, Kamla—do something. That man is stabbing him. Oh God! Can you see it?’
Shakti ben was trying to get through to the window for a better view. She pulled a child away and extended her arms through the bars, waving them hysterically. ‘Arey, do something—pull the chain! Let’s all shout and alert the passengers of the other coaches. They might not...they couldn’t possibly have seen what we have just seen…Shout! Shout! Someone pull the chain! Look away, Aparajita ben, look away!’
Aparajita stifled her scream with her fist. ‘Oh God, no. He has done it. That man’s dead, I think. Someone please do something. Call the police. What have we just seen. He is dead. That man is dead. I saw it with my own eyes. He used a knife—or a dagger, was it? Look! He’s thrown it out the window!’
Shakti ben grabbed Aparajita by her arms. ‘Aparajita ben. Get a hold of yourself. Look away…’
Aparajita noticed the dagger now lying on the tracks, the light from the train compartments making its steel glint. The bejewelled jade-coloured grip sparkled, and the horse-head…Aparajita froze. ‘Oh God, no…No! It can’t be. It just can’t…’
‘What? What can’t be?’
‘What time is it? Where are we? I must get down.’
‘Aparajita ben, you can’t! We are moving…’
‘But I must. How far is IIT from here? Someone please pull the chain. Here, I’ll do it.’
Shakti ben shook Aparajita by her shoulders. ‘IIT? But we are past it. And look. Someone has pulled the chain in that train. It’s alright. The police will be there in a minute. Calm down, ben, you need to calm down. No, don’t pull…’
Aparajita broke away and pulled at the chain with all her strength. ‘But I must. Oh God. What have I seen! I must, I must…Give way, move. Move.’
‘But you can’t just jump out like that, Aparajita ben. Wait.’
Too late. Aparajita jumped from the slow-moving train. She stumbled as she landed on the rubble, but managed to steady herself and run across the tracks to the other side in full view of the stunned passengers who watched her until she receded to a dot on the open stretch.
Shakti ben remained plastered to the window bars, mesmerised. ‘Bhagwaan. She jumped.’
Kamla was on the adjoining window. ‘What a woman, didi.’
‘But if you ask me, Kamla, a little screw loose.’
Kamla detached herself from the bars and grinned. ‘You mean, mad.’
‘A complete nutcase.’
‘Still, a hell of a timepass, wasn’t it?’
Shakti ben smacked Kamla on the head with the back of her hand. ‘You mui. Now pass me that cauliflower.’
Myself Jam.
Venkataramanujam. And your good name? My berth is lower. I have tied my new Samsonite suitcase to the leg of the seat with a Swiss lock. It will rattle a little. Sorry for the inconvenience when you sit down. Your wife can take the upper berth. The step ladder is here. Little dirty. Cleanliness in India has gone to the dogs—Swachh Bharat or no Swachh Bharat. What can the train do when people are dirty? Yourself? Ah, Patwardhan, I see from your VIP tag. Chitpavan? Brahmins, no?
Good, good. The journey will be peaceful. I saw on the list that the fourth passenger is a Bengali brahmin. Very good, very good. Bengalis are good people, like us south Indians. And like you Maharashtrians. Quiet, cultured, God-fearing, and classical music inclined. How else do you explain why so many singers come from our regions? Only Devi can explain. The fourth Bengali passenger, he can keep his harmonium on top there, between the berths, next to the fan, behind the tiffin box.
Ah, the train finally moves. One can say goodbye to the station filth. Yes, yes, just throw the plastic cup under your seat. Cleaner will come to pick it up. You only have to look away and lift your legs when he sweeps it out.
Just coming back from America, California, after visiting my son. First baby. Boy. Boy. His. My wife is staying back—to bathe the baby every day in olive oil and help with cutting vegetables and washing clothes. Custom. We have a three-month visa but I had office work. Little leave only. What to do?
My son went on an H1 visa and is now permanent citizen of America. Mows the lawn every weekend. Also barbecues. He eats a little meat and is social drinker only. Nothing at home—no, never, not even onions. Outside also only due to friends. What to do. Good fellow; when he knew we were coming, he filled the fridge with vendekkai, katrikkai, shundakkai, pavakkai—all available in Mountain View, little cheaper than Palo Alto, but a little costlier than San Jose which is full of loud Mexicans. But in Mountain View, so many Indians I saw, it looked like Pondy Bazar in Mambalam. Only Ratna Stores was missing. Otherwise noise, smell, people—almost the same.
Brilliant boy. First class first throughout. Only self-taught. Was playing chess from age two. IIT, IIM and then Stanford. Started tuition in India when he was eleven. Other colony boys when they were three. But he took tuition only when eleven and that too only for calculus. Maybe because of pollution. Sinus. But now big house in Redwood City and has white Americans for neighbours. No blacks on their street. You take 101 from San Francisco airport, get off Middlefield exit, go till you cannot go anymore, then turn left and from there it is a straight road to his house. I used to walk every day to the mall. In fact, spent all my time in the malls. Even got idli and vadai there.
And there’s also a Hanuman temple nearby. Swimming pool also, but my daughter-in-law does not wear a bikini. One piece. Like a sari—one piece. From a good home, in Tirunelveli. Very, very homely. Watches only Tamil and Hindi films all day, about gods and goddesses. Does not stir out of the house. My son also good husband. Handicap 24 because he cannot leave home. Otherwise, he would have handicap 4. Life is about give and take. Some adjust here and there.
Oh, my wife also has a handicap. She is hard of hearing. But she has packed food for the whole journey and some pickles, too. You can also have. We have extra spoons. Nothing like Indian women, I tell you. What is there in foreign—you tell me what is there in white skin? We are also returning from Seattle. Our son is also very brilliant—IIT, IIM, Harvard. But he married a foreigner and that too, black. Too black. What can one do, world is so globalised nowadays. Her parents are from Burundi. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Much darker than Obama. Much, much more visibly dark. Real black you should see, but how can you. Like in Africa. Cannot see her at night, so black it looks like blue. They have one issue. A girl. As dark as Obama. Grey you can say. Diluted, by the grace of God. Her name is Abigail Varalakshmi. She will be attending bharatanatyam classes soon. Also judo but we are not happy as she will grow muscles like that Williams who plays tennis. Sari blouse will not fit. If she marries a white man when she reaches the marriageable age, we are hoping children will be almost white. Dilution.
That is our only hope. Dilution. Only hope, I tell you.
Where are you going? We are also going to Bangalore. We will be getting off at the Cantonment. We have one unmarried daughter. Very clever. Plays the veena. Only one problem. She wears thick glasses. So many refusals. But she is happy and very adjusting type. Doesn’t use any make-up. Not even snow. She taught our daughter-in-law Cindy how to make all the dishes that my son likes. They often have guests, so we also taught her some foreign dishes—cabbage bake, potato bake, all without onions. You know these foreigners, they only eat bread. No culture. No music. Only hippies playing guitars.
She is studying BCom in GAS—Government Arts and Science College. Will pursue PhD after marriage. In America. We are looking in America. Good girl. No bad habits. Goes straight to college and comes straight home. Her name is Soundarya. She can also play the tabla—but not much as that gives muscles. There’s one more thing. Her menses were late and my wife was very worried. She is also a manglik. Do you know any good astrologer in Bangalore? We are Iyengars.
Shameless we are not. Insincere we are. Kind we are not. Curious we are. Stylish we are not. Clumsy we are. Modesty escaped us, leaving behind arrogance. We all went to IIT, we all went to IIM, we all speak English, we are all brahmins, we will all go to heaven where we will find that our creator may have had another view of all what we hate and love.
We are probably the only people on earth who rush inside a train that is not scheduled to leave for the next two hours. To catch a seat in a fully reserved train where we too have an assigned seat. It’s just to ‘catch’ that little extra—konjum something. Or me, myself and my own. How is it possible for complete strangers to discuss minutely private details about each other and then get off the train and walk away without so much as a goodbye? How is it possible to share a meal one instant and swear at each other the next? How is it possible that with so much brilliance brimming over, India has not placed too many innovations in the global market? Any? Indians do very well when they go abroad. Didn’t you hear that on your train journey? Didn’t your train journey educate you enough?
Train journeys are where we let all our complexes hang out, where we smell a high-caste fart and taste a low-caste pickle, where nothing is taboo, where we mingle and detach, mingle and detach, where our darkness is visible.
By the way, there was something very fishy about that Bengali woman on the upper-side berth. She was travelling alone. No bangle, no sindoor, wearing a Punjabi salwar and talking on her phone all the time. Eessh. Everything is even more visible when it is dark.