Of this, that & all in sundry
The platform is as crowded as ever — teeming with passengers, some sitting on the floor waiting for a delayed train while others meandering between them and their bags, porters pacing up and down the platform with baggage double their size and stalls of tea, magazines, snacks & cheap romantic novels. She can hear the announcement but the words are too muffled for her to decipher. She knows she is getting late, and this myriad of obstructions on her way across the platform make it not an easy path to navigate. Wasn’t she supposed to be with her husband and her son? No sooner does this thought cross her mind, she sees them ahead of her. Oh good, they are closer to the boggie. She stumbles over someone’s bag, without a glance at it, setting her foot right, she walks ahead. She is falling behind her family who have almost reached the train compartment. She notices that the compartment is much further away than she had realized. “The whistle, oh my god, I must rush.” She tries to pick pace but her foot gets stuck again. Not sure what it is, she tugs at her foot resulting in the strap of her sandal coming off. As she quickly takes her sandals in her hands and looks up, the train has already started moving. Panic grips her, her family is already on the train. She tries to call out to them but her voice fails. The platform looks a little less crowded now and she runs randomly between the ambling strangers trying to catch pace with the train. They look back at her running towards the train with a blank emotionless gaze.
She lay in her bed for a while, much refreshed from her sleep but feeling exhausted still. Turning to her side she reflects on the dream that had been recurring these past two weeks — always this common theme — missing the train, or bus, getting left behind. She takes a deep breath, glad for the good rest, ahead of what was going to be not a very comfortable night for sleep.
She checks the time on her bedside clock, “4 PM, we have another 6 hours to go” and gets up.
She walks into the living room or so it once was, now just an empty space. Everything in that room that belonged to them, represented them now packed in 24 neat boxes piled in the corner of the room. The room had been bare when they moved in, and three years later it was back to being the same — the emptiness around and within disturbs her so to distract herself she inspects if the boxes are well packed. One of them seems badly taped so she peels it off and looks inside. The brass rhino from Tinsukia stares back at her — it was a farewell gift to them when they got transferred from there. She takes it out to properly wrap it in newspaper and places it back on the side next to the Russian nestling dolls. To avoid the rhino’s horn scraping against the dolls, she tightly places a book between them. The dolls were special too, always a great source of conversation at her parties — “so how many dolls do you think are inside this one?”, she would ask her guests quite proudly. They had bought it at Kasauli — of all the places she made home, the cottage there was the prettiest. Chanakya’s Arthashastra now goes between them and the rhino. She gently presses all the items in the box to ensure they are tightly packed — each of them had held a place of pride on the mantlepiece which now lay bare. She firmly tapes the box and places a sticker on it “Train”.
“Sad is the home where the kitchen is not warm”, Beeji would always say. True to Beeji’s form, she has ensured that even six hours before departure, when all the house is emptied into boxes, the kitchen is still functional. Two kadhais (Indian woks), chakla-belan (to roll the Indian flatbreads), a pan, a few plates, spoons, bowls and other odds and ends along with a functional gas stove lie on the shelf. As she enters its warmth embrace, she is welcomed by the comforting sight of Beeji sitting on a stool, peeling a large pot of boiled potatoes and Malti on her haunches plying at the dough for pooris while listening to Beeji narrate her stories. “When I was young, in my kitchen, there would always be a pot of tea ready for anyone. I was famous in the entire neighbourhood & amongst our acquaintances, they would say, ‘You go to Beeji’s place anytime and you will always get a warm cup of elaichi chai (cardamom tea) and something home-made to go with’. ‘Haye, Beeji, were you called Beeji even when you were young?”, responds Malti engrossed in the conversation but not taking a break from the kneading. “Haan, since I had my first daughter and she called me Beeji, everyone started doing so. It was not common, in those days, to address an older person by their name.”
Malti catches sight of her at the kitchen entrance. “Arre, didi, aap uth gaye”. “Beeji, shall I help? Sorry, I just kept on sleeping, you should have woken me up. I would have helped” “Its ok bachcha. You looked so tired in the day, good you got some sleep. Why don’t you go freshen up, Satish will be home soon. Malti will make you some tea. We are almost done with this — now just have to fry the pooris and toss these potatoes in the gravy. Poori Alloo ready!”
There is not a sight of anxiety on the Beeji’s face, as if its just another regular day. Her mother’s sturdiness gives her strength and feel weak, somehow both at the same time.
“Mummmmmyyyyyyy”, and in rushes a hurricane. He is sweaty, panting & red faced back home from an afternoon of playing with his friends, “I said Bye to all my friends and told them we are leaving tonight. Shikha toh started crying Mama.” “I hope you consoled her” she says “Hmmm”, clearly no such act of chivalry had been followed. “Achca go take a bath, you are stinking. Where is your bhaiya? Both of you need to freshen up before Papa is back. No last minute rush”, she says leaving the kitchen and ushering her younger son to his room.
The shower makes her feel better. As she sits in front of the dressing table mirror, of all the things that are changing yet feeling stagnant, one that she feels glad of being so, is her reflection in the mirror. On the dressing table lie an assortment of items — lipsticks, bindis, nail polish, some bangles and chains and a photo frame with two photos — one from her wedding and another one from their honeymoon. Back then, Satish was posted at Deolali, he had taken leave to fly down to Delhi for their wedding. He was a young, newly appointed officer, enjoying his new found freedom — both economic and social, leading a carefree lifestyle and getting posted to a new town every six months during his apprenticeship. She, in contrast, all of 21 of which sparing the toddler years, had never stepped outside Delhi. To her, moving to Deolali itself sufficed as a honeymoon but Satish took her to Goa. She looked at the two pictures and remembered how thrilled she was, for the first six years, at the prospect of visiting new towns and meeting new people — with each visit, her life felt like it was finally filling up. During his posting at Tinsukia, he was assigned a vehicle and a driver and in those two years the couple covered five of the seven remote north eastern states of the country. The necklace studded with semi precious stones from a store in Meghalya, a hair ornament from Aizwal & the jewelry box itself from a visit to the Madan Kamadev temple in Assam, memoirs from three of those states lay at her dressing table. She picks up the photo frame, pulls aside her wedding photo, behind which appears another picture of her, standing against a plain backdrop wearing a long black robe, smiling at the camera with a hint of shyness, nervously displaying her degree. It was taken on the day she graduated first class honors in English, second to her day of engagement, this was the day she brought greatest pride to her family. A close third was landing a government job that she pursued for a year before she got married and relocated.
The evening sun cast long shadows on the barren floor of the living room. The movers bustle around, carrying the boxes into the lorry while their supervisor stands on a side hurling abuses whenever a box scraped against a wall or the floor. “No, no not that box. Leave it. Anything marked “Train” goes with us”, she cried.
It takes four men, fifteen minutes to pack all the boxes into the lorry. As she walks out to the porch watching the lorry being pulled out of the narrow driveway, Bharat walks in from the gate. His eyes are red and swollen & face shadowed in sorrow; goodbyes can be especially hard when it is to your first ever set of close friends. He sees his mother on the porch and an unspoken understanding of seemingly wasted emotional investment manifests in a hug. The younger one comes out on the porch and overwhelmed by the sight, hugs his mother tightly too. She fills her arms with both her sons and the trio look at the lorry which finally manages its way out of the driveway leaving them behind in the fading light of the twilight.
Satish arrives to the welcome of a strong fragrance of deep fried pooris and hing which now engulfs the vacancy of the living room. He walks into the kitchen buzzing with activity — Malti making dough balls and flattening them at a frantic pace, Beeji calmly frying them and her youngest grandson neatly packing them in newspapers as they cool down.
“Papa. We are almost ready. Bhaiya, I & Mummy are ready. Beeji will be ready as soon as these pooris are done. And once you have taken a bath, we will be ready to go”. Papa smiles and pats his head before leaving the kitchen, his son follows him. “Papa, the packers came and packed all the bags. Everything is gone, except these three suitcases, one box and this smaller night case. Mummy and bhaiya are feeling sad to go but I am ok. Will we be in time to catch the train? Is it a super fast?…..”
Satish enters his bedroom leaving his son outside chattering away to himself. He looks at his wife packing items from her dressing table into a small pouch. “Sad?” “Hmmm…a little. You know, we had such a good time here.” He hugs her, “And we’ll have an even better one there. Bigger house, more social activity — perks of the promotion. You will head the Wives’ Welfare Association there” She nods and gets back to packing the items on her dressing table. He removes his tie and looks at the fresh pair of clothes she has set out for him to wear for the journey. Satish goes to take a shower and she walks out into the living room.
“Beta, l will quickly take a bath. Food is all packed in this bag.” Beeji says to her and then turns to Malti, “Beti, you have been so nice. Take care of yourself and your daughters — make sure you tell them the stories of Dharamraj — it will imbibe the sense of duty in them. Here keep this little something for you”, she thrusts a hundred rupee note in her hands, “And once you have washed those utensils, take them home with you. They’ll be useful for you”. Malti touches Beeji’s feet, and walks up to her mistress and folds hands in gratitude.
“Come on boys. Quickly decide who is picking which bag? The taxi is here” “Ill carry the food bag” “Ok, but along with that carry that small bag too. No, not the box. Let Bhaiya carry the big box. Papa will carry those two suitcases and I will carry this one. Beeji can carry her purse. Lets count how many bags are these. 1, 2, 3….8 pieces of luggage including beeji and my handbag. Everyone will put the bags they are responsible for in the car. And then remember to carry then along while boarding the train.” Her little son rushes towards the bags making a sounds like a train engine. The bags are carried one by one into the taxi. Satish comes out and takes the suitcases along with him. Once all the bags are in the car, Satish gets in with one of the boys in the front. Beeji makes way with the elder one behind. Just about to get into the car, she turns back to look at the house one last time — “let me quickly check that all the taps are shut and lights turned off. Ok?”
She walks back into the house switching on the living room light. Quickly checks the bathroom and kitchen taps and walks back into the living room — she pauses for a minute allowing for all the happier memories of that place fill her — parties, get togethers and chats she had hosted here. Mrs Mehra’s comment “Your wife is the best host ever Satish”, her husband nodding in agreement, “The Diwali party that you hosted here last year was the best Diwali we had in years.” A deep breath, she turns off the light, immediately reversing the play of light and shadow in the room now lit by the dull light from the street lamp outside — irony of life metaphorically manifesting in the room.
The car pulls into the station finally — the jam outside the gate had costed them 15 minutes fully. Everyone is now anxious at the prospect of missing the train — even Beeji.
“Come on. Quickly pick up your respective bags and start walking. The train will be on Platform 1 so not too far. One of you stay with Beeji”
The boys and Beeji set off towards the platform. Satish pays the taxi driver, looks at his wife and gives her a quick hug before picking up the two suitcases and making his way too. She picks up the leftover suitcase, steadies her purse and is immediately reminded of her nightmare. She quickly picks pace and tries to cover the distance between her and her husband.
The platform is in veritable chaos — the family struggles its way past the people, the stalls, the bags in an attempt to catch their train. A whistle goes off, promptly doubling their pace “Which boggie?” “We are in AC 3 tier. Bhai sahib, AC 3 kahan hai?” (Where is AC 3 tier?) The man points towards the engine — and Satish says “Damn” in desperation “Hurry guys its right at the front of the train”. How is it that we are always running to catch a train last minute? With a suitcase in her hand, and bag in another she struggles to hold up her sari and run. The second whistle and release of steam from the engine — the guard is peering out, preparing to wave his flag as an indicator of the train’s movement. She catches a glimpse of Satish, he is helping Beeji get on the train, then his younger son. Gasping for breath but she keeps her pace. The indicator on the track turns from Red to Green and the lever lowers. The guard draws out his whistle. In all the deafening din of the platform, the guard’s whistle pierces loud and clear — like a sword cutting through cloth. Almost in sync, the train jerks as the wheels are set in motion.
She is just one compartment behind, her husband with his hands out stretched. She lifts up the suitcase, he catches it.
“Ill take that from you, you help your wife come up”, says a man to Satish. Satish is grateful for his help and lends his wife a hand up. As she turns behind she sees her elder son running close behind with the big box. Satish jumps off the train, takes the box from his son, thrusts him forward. The man at the gate helps the boy up in the compartment and then takes the box from Satish allowing him to jump in too. “Thank you for helping my family. I am Satish” “Glad to be of help. Moksha.”
She sighs in relief to see them all aboard, as the train leaves the platform. She guides them to their seats, settles Beeji and her kids before taking the seat by the window. She is just in time to catch the last glimpse of the city before the train pulls into the fields.
https://cosmicliaison.blogspot.com/2020/05/of-this-that-all-in-sundry.html
