Today I woke at five-thirty. The sun was just coming up, and the air was damp and cool. I washed up in a hurry, though, for no obvious reason. It seemed like any other day, one that I was free to take in with careless abandon, despite the fact that I was still very much unemployed and surviving solely on a monthly stipend that came from a generous uncle in Roorkee.
The cold water stung my face. As I dried my face, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Hollow cheeks and light blue eyes looked back at me. A slight smile crept up on my face as I remembered the girls in school running after me, giggling. Always popular with the ladies, they said. Sure to make it someplace big, is that boy.
If only they could see me now.
Opening the door to my two-room flat, I paused momentarily on the verandah to breathe the fresh air and look out at the street. Ramu the
chaiwala had not yet begun to open his stall under the awning under the movie poster board across the street. Two street urchins sat on the steps to Shankarji’s boutique, sharing a meal wrapped in newspaper. A small mutt lay in a puddle lapping up muddy remains from the previous night’s storm. I too love it after it rains heavily. Everything is fresh and clean.
I made my way across the railway tracks and over to the
maidan where I met Chandan, with his schoolbooks and little green
jhola. I greeted him with the customary
salaam, while he returned my gesture with a grin and carried on down the road. Then, as I approached the
maidan I heard the pleasant sound of leather against willow. The cricket net practice had begun early today.
I walked across the field to my usual spot where I practice my push-ups and sit-ups. I have made it a regular wont, these early morning exercises. It makes me feel relaxed, for this is the one time where it is just me and a solitary task that does not involve anyone else.
As I walked across the field, I passed through the sea of white bodies, voices yelling at each other, some in approval, some in frustration as a player dropped a catch or played a rash stroke with the bat.
There was Montu, the chubby one, with his troupe of cousins. Every day it was the same story, Montu would be the first to bat, with the designer cricket bat that his uncle had supposedly brought all the way from “Ingland”, while the rest of the poor rugrats on his team would bowl at him and then frantically chase the ball after Montu had smacked it out of their reach. Montu was not the most athletic of cricketers, as his gait suggested, but he knew enough about the game to bark instructions at smaller children. Being the son of the local elementary school principal furthered his stature amongst the others, I figured.
Then there was Kuldeep, the PT master’s son, for whom cricket was a passion. Kuldeep was much older than Montu, and he played for the Degree College XI. He was a
sardar, and a great athlete. He was known in these parts for his mastership with the bat. He smiled at me as I passed. I had played with Kuldeep in a few local matches, and he was always the first one to put his arm around my shoulder and tell me where I was going wrong or if I had played well.
I walked over to a dirty wooden bench that lay upturned against the
paan-stained wall that acted as a boundary for the local afternoon matches. First, I stretched out my limbs, letting the morning air soak in to my shoulders and forearms. These exercises somehow take my mind off the day’s anxieties ahead. I like limbering up and being at peace with myself as the day begins. Staying fit makes me feel like I have achieved a little something.
Sweaty and dirty from lying on the grass doing my curl-ups and push ups, I had a bath upon my return home. Then the next-door neighbour's
ayah came around 9:00 or so asking if there was anything to be washed. I said there wasn’t, though actually there were two of my khaki shirts and an old pair of denim jeans that Gautam had picked up for me from his last trip to Roorkee.
Gautam was an on old school friend and accomplice in my many feeble attempts at pick pocketing, and we often got together to snip tourists back in our Meerut days. He lived down the road near the
halwai shop. His father was a clerk at the State Bank and had on many occasions tried to get him a job as an assistant to the manager, but to no avail. Not that Gautam could care one way or the other. Gautam was like me in being undecided about where we wished to go. Except he was more unpredictable.
I remember the time he ran away from home to try and go to Delhi - but the very night before he was to present himself for an interview down at the post office. He didn’t make it beyond Ghaziabad, and when he returned home his father shouted beat him and yelled at him for what seemed like hours. Then the very next day he tried to jump aboard the Rajdhani and flee to Amritsar, but he was thrown off almost as suddenly as he had leapt onto it becase he didn’t have ticket, and had to spend the next three days down at the limestone quarry where his uncle worked. He was a jovial fellow, though. He didn’t care much for work, but always had a smile on his face and would help me out in any way he could.
As I flipped through the morning newspaper, I thought about what I should do today. I could stroll back over to the
maidan and see if there was anyone playing a game of football or cricket. I could stroll through the market, maybe even stop by at Rashmi’s place for a cup of tea, or a glass of sweet lassi at Amarinder
paaji’s dhaba. I was sure to get the latest gossip there.
I also thought of seeing the new movie down at the cinema, but then remembered that I’d already seen it thrice. It was a little vice of mine. The movies captivated me. They took me away to a place that I did not know, and there was a time when I had even thought of running away to Bombay and seeing if I could get a job as a spot-boy with a movie company, but then who has the time and patience to do that. I preferred it the way it is now, this aloofness and this unpredictability.
But then I got a telegram soon after saying that my uncle in Dehra Doon had gotten a job for me at the tourism department. It sounded dull, but then there was always the chance that the position involved travelling around the Doon Valley. I loved that area. The trees, the rolling hills, the mist as it crept over the mountains each evening in the cold winter months, the wildlife – I loved seeing and experiencing these.
I locked up the house and told my neighbours that I would return in three days, though Mrs. Shankar was busy trying to give her screaming children a bath and I doubt she heard a word I said. Then I dropped by Gautam’s place, but he had gone to the movies. So without further ado I made my way over to the railway station near the boot factory where every day at around noon a train stopped on its way to Dehra to pick up the few hapless souls who dared venture out from this dull, dormant town.
As I approached the platform I saw sitting on a bench a young lady dressed in a simple green
salwar-kameez. I had never seen her before, but as I slowly came near her she turned and looked at me. She had the prettiest eyes that I have ever seen - and I have seen many. They even larger and darker than those of any movie heroine. But there was also an element of sadness in them.
She had her hair done up in a bun, and her lips moved cautiously as I came near. But I did not smile. I thought it wrong. I did not know her, and I did not want her to think that I was intentionally looking at her.
But right then her eyes moved as if frightened, like a deer at the edge of a thicket, hearing something far away. And as an impulse I set my bag down and looked away in the opposite direction as if something else had caught my attention.
A few seconds later, I warily turned my head around, pretending to be looking across the horizon for any signs of the train. She was still looking at me, not in fear, but in some sort of apprehension and amazement, as if I was the stranger in this town
and I had disturbed her tranquillity with me presence. I felt awkward as I have never felt before.
“Are you waiting for the train?” I said suddenly, as if the words had been forced out of me. She moved, once again, startled, like she had just been broken from a trance.
“Yes,” she answered. “And yourself?”
“I am going to Dehra to see an uncle,” I said.
She did not say anything. I felt like a fool. The silence pierced through me like something I had never felt before. Meanwhile, she was still looking at me with those sad eyes. The seconds ticked away like hours. Then suddenly the shrill whistle of the train shattered the silence and brought us back to reality.
“The train is here,” I said slowly, in a way people always state the obvious. She rose from the bench, and I picked up my bag. The train came to a halt, and both of us got on. Then for some reason I followed her and sat down in the seat facing hers. The conductor came around and asked if we were going to Dehra Doon. She did not say anything, and so I said yes, buying two tickets.
Out the window, the town soon made way for the endless wheat and corn fields that occupy the space from here to Dehra.
After a while she spoke, softly, suggestively. “What are you going to Dehra for?”
“My uncle has a job for me.”
“You don’t seem to be the kind who likes to work,” she said softly. Her words had a calming effect on me. I did not feel uncomfortable any more.
“I am indifferent. I go where I please. No one has any ties to me.” Why I said that I did not know, but it seemed like the thing to say.
She looked out the window at the fields whipping past. The mild afternoon sun rested on her face, and the bars of the window cast awkward shadows across her cheeks. But her eyes were still sad, as if she was thinking of someone, or something, that bothered or saddened her.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
She said nothing. I had lost her again. She gazed out across the miles of green and brown landscape stretching out like the ocean. Then the edges of her mouth began to curl up into a smile. It was as if I was not even there, and I dared not disturb her from her peace.
The time went slowly. We did not speak for a long time. Finally, she fell asleep. I continued to watch her. She looked beautiful when she slept. Where was she from? Why was she going to Dehra? How I wanted to know her.
The train stopped briefly in another small town, and from outside the barking of a dog and the yelling of a peanut hawker woke her.
“Do you have family in Dehra?” I asked.
“No,” she said solemnly, looking out the window at the hawker as he walked past the train and made his way into the fields.
“Why are you going then?”
“To see someone,” she answered.
I felt awkward again. We did not speak for sometime. The conductor made his rounds again, glancing for a second at her and then moving on down the compartment. Then, after what seemed like an hour, I excused myself to go to the restroom. The train lurched and screamed as it went across an old iron bridge. We must be close to Dehra now, I thought as I waddled down the corridor.
When I returned to my seat she was gone, though her
dupatta lay on the seat she had occupied. I presumed she must have gone to the restroom as well, but when twenty minutes elapsed and she did not return I got up, wrapped the
dupatta tightly around my right fist, and began to check the compartments.
I asked the conductor if he had seen her, but he had not. None of the other passengers had seen her go by. I began to feel afraid. But why? I knew nothing of her, so why was her safety or whereabouts my own concern?
The train soon arrived at the station. I scrambled off quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again on the platform. But it was dark now, and the lights of the nearly deserted station seemed especially odd and disturbing. All the passengers looked like walking ghosts.
Where was she? Why did she leave? I turned around and around on the platform in despair.
Then I began to walk slowly towards the gate where my uncle would be waiting for me. The green cloth felt odd, still wrapped tightly around my right hand. I passed by a tea stall from which the sweet smell of
elaichi wafted deep into my nostrils. Then in the distance, lights of Dehra flickered like diamonds and from somewhere the haunting tunes of an old film song echoed from a cassette player.
As I left the confines of the platform I saw a lone figure sitting on a bench near the ticket booth. I paused for a moment, then hurriedly began to approach. As I came near, I saw the person’s face in the moonlight. It was not my uncle, but an old man, his face covered with scars, sitting by himself as if expecting someone.
But it wasn’t me. So, after a short pause, I began to walk away.
“
Bhai sahib,” the old man said.
I turned around and faced him. The dull light from the overhead street lamp covered his features like a blanket. He looked at me in an odd, almost eerie manner. The old man said nothing, but rose and came towards me, one arm outstretched. His eyes were ever sadder than the lady’s on the train. Yet there was some resemblance between the two, some similar pain that both of their eyes had been accustomed to. Meanwhile, the old man just stood there, the streetlight falling over him, almost burdening him with its dark, heavy light.
“Please,” he murmured, clearly pained.
Then, as if being directed by some unknown will, I unwrapped the bright
dupatta and placed it in his coarse shrivelled hands that seemed to be begging something from me. Instantly the scars on his face seemed to relax. It was as if he had been reunited with a piece of him long ago forsaken. Then, without a word, he slowly retreated into the shadows of the night and was gone.
I remained there, motionless, in the middle of the empty station. The light now turned a dull yellow.
I stood awhile longer, taking it all in. Then I smiled. I had finally succeeded in something, even though it was so unknown. I would never know the whole story, but I was content. I was ready for the rest of my life.
Then I turned and walked away towards the beckoning lights ahead.
