thebengali.com

  
Have you ever tried to travel in comfort on a railway seat which you stood in a line and reserved 60 days in advance?
It ain’t funny, I tell you. On one of my last trips to Delhi, I took a train – the Jhelum Express it was. I had a confirmed berth for the 28-hour journey (yep, that’s how long it used to take from Pune back then) and was looking forward to my best friend’s wedding. I even had the soundtrack of the movie by the same name to get me into the mood. But I shouldn’t have bothered – there was enough music on the train to keep me happy, delirious with joy even.
It was like being part of a real-life movie shoot – culture, paalitics, law and orderlessness, romance, bribery, black marketing, you name it – it was all there in those 28 lousy hours. By the time we reached Manmad, I had fought off three attempts on my seat and was hanging on to my luggage for dear life. Luckily it consisted of only a minute travel bag. But unluckily, its minute stature meant that I could not hold on to my top berth for the rest of the day. Every time a station came I had two problems. One, I had to think twice before stepping off for a cuppa / swig / munch / anything. Two, once the train left the station I had to resume glowering at anyone who eyed my top berth and seemed like lifting his/her luggage up.
Eventually I gave up. I lit up a cigarette in my best Clint Eastwood imitation and dragged on it the way I had seen John Trovolta do in Broken Arrow. Then, after a few puffs, I bared my fangs menacingly and growled (so all could hear) at my immediate neighbour, “Main upar ja raha hoon. Seat ko sambhal na.” My heavy beard must have convinced him I was as menacing as I looked.
I must have dozed off because next when I perceived the world, it had changed dramatically. I felt as if I had woken up as part of Steven Spielberg’s next horrifying classic. There were people everywhere I could see, and I couldn’t see anything out of the windows, because there apparently were no windows in the compartment. The balding middle-aged man who had earlier been bragging about how lucky he was to have one of those aisle seats, was now sharing it with four other men… and a bawling child. He looked a little ill. The aisle itself, all along the compartment, was littered with people of all sorts – middle aged, young, old, poor, well off, girl, boy, men, women, all types.
I peered down at my seat and the neighbor I had growled at looked at me defiantly  – he was sitting on the edge of his own seat with 100-odd kilos of a woman occupying both our seats and ignoring the rest of the world. One of the other guys who had a reserved seat got up to hang his jacket … and lost his seat.
I considered the situation. And I looked at my options. I wanted to reach my best friend’s wedding. And I wanted to reach it in one piece. His to-be-bride had not yet seen me and I wanted to make a good first impression. I went back to sleep.
I was better off on the return journey – I knew what was in store. I didn’t have any excuses though. My new sister-in-law had seen me and wasn’t too horrified. Though she must have hoped for better after the things she had heard from my friend. But that was the least of my problems. On the return trip, even before the Jhelum left New Delhi, my seat was under threat from students returning to Pune after their vacations. Uncouth hooligans. They had one confirmed berth between three of them and decided they ought to stick together. Which of course meant that the others who had stood in line to obtain a reserved seat shouldn’t have bothered – we all should just latch onto a train and choose a parking spot for our derrieres. Believe me, it saves a lot of headache, time and money.
At every other station, there were these sheepish looking, but determined criminals who insisted that they were travelling only till the next stop. “Ek hi ghante ki baat hai, bhaisahab,” Of course, considering the number of such ‘one hours’, all I could do was pray that Pune was nearer to Delhi than when I had left it. My other best friend who had come from Nagpur and has traveled all over the country, had told me that in Bihar things are worse – people actually travel on top of the trains and even cook their meals up there. Well, when in Bihar, I will cook my meals up there too. Just then, all I wanted was some peace and 72 people inside that train compartment. Though at any given time, my estimate was closer to 200.
Then there were those… those vendors. They had a captive market – none of us dared get up at the stations, so we had to take what they offered. And they knew it. I, of course, refused to play by their rules. Till three hours later when Agra came up. Then I grabbed for the first bread-cutlet  I saw – oil, butter paper and all. The little girl who swept the floor – and was paid for it – was followed by an older brother who also swept the floor and was paid for it. Then it was their uncle’s turn. This routine continued for the entire journey.
The cold drink guy was selling “Limca!” and gave the young girl sitting across a Coke. Another uniformed dude sold her shy admirer some chilly chips – at a premium of  Rs 3 per packet. He was followed by yet another guy who screamed “Bishleri” and handed the poor suitor some bottle of water to provide relief from the chilly chips. Rs 10, thank you. While I was so engrossed, a blind beggar came and stamped on my foot and immediately a little boy appeared, sheepishly asking, “Boot Polish?”
Lunch and dinner time were by far the best. An elderly gambler-type rasped in his guttural voice, “Khana. Khana Bolo Khana!”
The shy romeo mustered courage and squeaked “Khana!” The young girl giggled. The gambler-type glowered. I asked him about the price of khana. “Saadaa (normal) or special?” I shrugged. “Saada comes with saadaa rice, saaadaa daal, saadaa roti and saadaa curd – Rs 20,” he told me. And the special, I wondered. “The ‘peshul has ‘peshul rice (pulao), ‘peshul roti, ‘peshul curd and a shweet – Rs 35. There is another very ‘peshul khana, but it is for Rs 50.” I decided pass for the time being. After everyoine who had orderd was served, the gambler-type came around again. “Khana bolo, khana!” This time the special khana was priced at Rs 25 – more demand, less supply.
After half-an-hour when people had eaten as best they could in the spacious dining arrangements, the little girl reappeared to sweep the place and was paid for it. Well, at least they weren’t begging.
All of a sudden there was some commotion and out of the melee emerged our friendly neighbourhood a hand-clapping ardhnareshwars. “Aye bhai, behen ko paisa de, khushi se,” they said. To the women they went” “Aye behen, bhai ko paisa de khushi se!” a lot of shoving, pushing and cajoling later, they proceeded to the next compartment.
And the gambler-type returned, this time selling the left-over pulao for Rs 10 – packed in silver foil packets. Ingenious, I tell you. Why people go to IIMs, I can never understand. Anyway, by the time we saw Pune station,the rustic villager opposite was the proud owner of a comb, a car decoration piece, a knife, a Rs 20 watch and a bunch of old comics. The girl, fed up of her admirer’s lack of guts, got up and lugged her luggage all the way to the door. The boy remained in two minds as always. The 100-kilo aunty had given way to a 90 kilo weakling and the gambler-type was trying to peddle a last cuppa.
I was glad, of course, that I had reached Pune. What I wanted to know was why there were so many TCs looking busy doing nothing on the train, while I had to play musical chairs for my berth. The things I do for my best friend. That’s when I decided though: The next time one of my friends decides to get married, I am asking for a return air ticket.