It is close to midnight and I am
cruising along the tracks, shattering the stillness of the night. I am bound
for Delhi and would have to reach the capital at the crack of dawn. There is no
time to waste. The thrill of my onward journey helps me overcome my
limitations, reminding me of the task at hand. I would have to reach all of my guests
that they refer to as passengers, to their destinations. Most of them are now
asleep except for some insomniacs. A few of them go to toilets every now and
then to smoke throwing dust in the eyes of the guards as they know that smoking
is forbidden on the train. When one or two are caught they end up paying money
to the guards who know the technique of extorting money from them by
intimidating them.
My body is aching from the
journey of the entire day but I cannot complain as I know that there is no
respite until I have reached my guests to their destinations. It is a
responsibility that I have to shoulder every time I begin the journey. I will
still have to traverse a long distance, completing the journey. I remain in a
very wakeful state and keep racing along the tracks, never complaining of
tedium.
I relieve myself of the strain of
the journey by listening to the tale of a mother to her child who refuses to
sleep. The demon in her story is
crouching near their berth, ready to pounce on him if he does not enjoy a few
winks of sleep. I feel happy that I have a companion when I am awake.
Along the entire stretch of the
journey when I reach te
Temurpalli in Bengal I become emotional. My eyes caress the vision of a wizened woman sitting on the porch of her small hut at the end of a vegetable patch a little down the tracks. Some people from that place have often boarded the train and given a free reign to their emotions pertaining to the old woman. I have gathered from their conversations that she sits there throughout the night lighting a lamp, waiting for the return of her husband. Even though her husband was killed while fighting against some terrorists in Kashmir, she believes that he will come back at the dead of night to give her a surprise.
Temurpalli in Bengal I become emotional. My eyes caress the vision of a wizened woman sitting on the porch of her small hut at the end of a vegetable patch a little down the tracks. Some people from that place have often boarded the train and given a free reign to their emotions pertaining to the old woman. I have gathered from their conversations that she sits there throughout the night lighting a lamp, waiting for the return of her husband. Even though her husband was killed while fighting against some terrorists in Kashmir, she believes that he will come back at the dead of night to give her a surprise.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteYou ate great sir...
ReplyDelete