It was too early to be on the platform . The train wasn't supposed to come till 1700. I had to vacate the hotel room by 1230 . They needed to prep the room for the next occupants who were due to arrive at 1400. So , in famous sweltering noon heat of Tamil Nadu , I found myself staring at two railway lines on the farthest end of the platform of a station I had heard about , only a few days ago , surrounded by people who spoke a language I didn't know .
Earlier , my daughter got into this University and I had come to drop her off. Like a good Indian mother , I made sure she was well supplied with everything that being in a room required . Beginning from the essentials , like mattress and pillows , to non essentials ( to my mind ) like doormats and perfumed kerchiefs , we were all set . She being an organised soul , had set up everything into her tiny hostel room , arranged her cupboard , made friends , checked out her neighbours , got all her paper work done .
So , it was with a light heart , that I arrived at the station . I was told to go to the platform number five . It lay at the fag end of the station . Every railway station has parallel platforms alternating with lines for up and down trains , on its either end . So 1and 2 platform number lined the main station building . 5 and 6 lay beyond 3and 4 . Farther from the parent building and with fewer amenities . Lesser number of kiosks , very few vendors and a non existent roof .
The sun beat down , relentlessly .
The only positive thing was lot of bengali population on the platform . The dress, demeanour and the language . They stood out , reassuring me that I was on the right platform . But why were all of them early ? Did they all have to vacate their rooms like me ?
Turns out , there was another train going to West Bengal . And it was about to arrive shortly. Only it didn't touch Kolkata. It steered clear of the southern part and chugged its way up north bengal through the leafy jungles of Bankura and Purulia .
The numbers on the platform swelled . Amazingly , there were numerous post operative patients . I saw lumbar , thoracic and cervical braces . Also casts and wheelchairs . I was witnessing mass exodus of patients returning from a hospital . Elderly and young . Fatigued and weary . Caregivers and relatives too ,
I had sheltered myself next to a small kiosk selling chai and biscuits . These also serve as a ready reckoner for train arrival and departure timings , exact position of bogies and more . Provided you know the language . If not , you have to learn to decipher nods , smiles , and other facial expressions . There was a concrete bench , quarter of which was in the shade. This is where I sat , sipping my bisleri .
A group of three arrived , looking for shade . An elderly gentleman in dhoti , an emaciated woman carrying a large bag , and a young man wearing pants ,carrying nothing .The elderly gentleman and the lady seemed to be the parents and the young man the son , who had accompanied them , to Vellore for treatment . The father wore a crisp white dhoti , with a massive dark blue lumbo thoracic cervical belt . It gave him the air of a powerful , unbending ( literally ) patriarch . When asked to sit next to me in the shade , he turned half of his body towards me , gave me a disdainful look , and declared " Me ? pshaw ! I don't need to sit " . The poor mother who had just put her massive load down , in a hope to rest for a while , quickly picked up her bag , heaved it in her head and wiping her face with her pallu ran to keep up with the father and son .
"Kaku !" A youthful voice called the shopkeeper in the kiosk . Kaku is a term meant for uncle , in chaste bengali . I wondered if it meant something else in Tamil . The tamil shopkeeper poked his head out , and asked what ,with a toss of his head .
"Eta koto ?" ( how much for this ?) Asked a 12 year old girl in a frock and silver anklets .
"Tera " The shopkeeper meant 13 , but it could have meant, yours , in Hindi . Yours to keep .
"Taero!" The girl shouted to her parents , sitting a yard away , in the shade of some other kiosk .
"Nebo ?" asking permission to buy . Then happily telling the kaku "Diye dao ". ( I will take one )
It was amazing . One of the many miracles that fate sprinkles by the road side , waiting for us to catch a glint of . I had never before seen a transaction in chaste Bengali being conducted in Tamil land .
Another group of two arrived . An elderly lady , bent at the hip , clad in a white printed saree . Like most bengali old ladies , she was a chatterbox . The moment she sat , she started off .
"Where are you going to ? Which college did you say your child was in ? I came to CMC for treatment ..."
In a span of ten minutes , that she sat next to me , she had told me most of her life's stories and troubles .
She lost her husband when she was pregnant with this boy ( now standing in the sun holding three bags and looking very hassled and old ) . She has five daughters in addition to him . That they are all grown up , married and happy . One of her grandsons just secured a job in Bangalore , and she was treated to a trip to Varanasi by him . She has visited all the main Hindu pilgrimage sites that are there. She has bleeding from her "amasha " , which is a euphemism for both large intestine and uterus . That she had come to CMC Vellore for her treatment . That her own brother has filed a lawsuit against her , for land and property inheritance . And her" deor "(husband's younger brother ) is a really sweet person who has given her a home to live in , after the death of her husband .
After this , she took a break , rubbed some tobacco in her left palm with her right thumb , which she magically produced from one of her secret pouches .
"You know what touched me most here ?" She was reflectively chewing tobacco .
Not waiting for my reply , she said " All the boys rushing down to touch my feet and carrying my luggage to the auto when I was leaving . "
" The boys in the rest house I was staying at ."
I nodded . The son came with a cold bottle of frooti, perspiring . She shook her head , " You drink first ."
As he opened the bottle , she complained to me , loudly " You know , my son here , doesn't want to get married . " Her son gave me that "Oh -no -not-again " Kind of look . Then he turned away and tipped the bottle , drinking noisily .
"He wants to look after me . Maybe he will marry when I am gone . Who knows ? But it would be nice to have a daughter -in-law of my own ." She sighed wistfully . Then quickly recovered , went and spat her tobacco , took the bottle from her son , drank the rest of the frooti and quickly shoved the bottle into the various lumpy folds of her saree. Grinning a smile revealing tobacco stained crooked incisors , she whispered " We will meet soon ." (aabar dekha hobe ) and disappeared behind her son striding purposefully away looking for next bit of shade in the harsh sun.
Bleeding from either intestines or uterus at her age was bad news . She said she was eighty. She hadn't undergone any surgery either . I wondered how much time she had left. She seemed to be content though . Having finished with most of life's obligations .....
The train arrived . You realise that the arrival is imminent , because there are more people craning their necks in that direction . The hub bub slows down and people move respectfully away from the edge of the platform .
Most of the carriages were near empty . In preparation of a near platform full of humans. Within a matter of few minutes , everyone and their luggage had remarkably settled in . Adventurous ones wandered around , refilling bottles and cramming their already full bags with chips , biscuit packets . It was along way back home . Precisely , 28 -30 hours of back breaking journey .
Finally , the train chugged off . Few people stayed back . Native tamils , saying goodbyes . The Bengalis had been swept clean . Not one in sight . It was two hours to my train's arrival .
I panicked . In a strange town , to catch a train home , people arrive early on the station . Where are the guys boarding my train ?
The kiosk owner cleared his throat when I presented my question to him in a mixture of english and sign language . More sign , less words . His hands were clutching a large polythene bag full of namkeen satchets.
He took his time , keeping it inside some dark unseen cupboard . Then he dealt with another customer , in fluent Tamil . I get that a lot . Gives me time to reflect on human nature , patience , universe , and dealings of fate . In other words , I have already waded across a sludge filled nullah of bad thoughts, in my mind , before the person thus addressed , returns back with an answer .
He was chewing something . Diving below the counter to pull something from his cupboards , He held three fingers up in the sky . Not looking at me of course . I , imbecile-ly , repeated my query .
This time , he surfaced back up . Chewing , he regarded me with the same look people reserve for retards and beggars. Half pity-half disgust , rolled up in patience , deep fried in oil of holier-than-thou . Then he leaned outward , aimed his mouth at the broken lid of the large municipal dustbin , and spat . His gob landed in the bin . Perfect . Smug with his flawless performance , he turned to me .
"Platform numer 3" He repeated , clearly , no ambiguity . Holding three stubby fingers skywards , again .
"My train ?" I was incredulous .
"Your train." He nodded , emphatically , stabbing the air in front of my face with his fore finger .
From where I sat , you could see the goings on on the platform number three . You just had to turn your back .
Sheesh , the platform was seething with bengalis . It had more shade , more kiosks , more people . Sarees , printed and white . Cotton . Red and white bangles . Shankha and pola . Tell tale chattering. One occasionally , well tied dhoti . And one odd beret . Brown or ash . When civilians wear beret in India , they are mostly terminally anglophilic Bengali.
I went up there , almost immediately . There was this bench , on which sat a pensive looking lady . Probably as old as me . Wearing a dark green saree , rubber slippers and a gold round showy locket at the end of a thickish gold chain around her neck . She also wore gold bangles and a thick gold ring with a square top , embedded with what looked like a ruby .
Still, she was completely ordinary . Blending into the crowd . Tamilians love to flaunt gold and are honest to a fault .
She spoke flawless and almost accent free english . Probably forces background , schoolteacher . I was profiling like Holmes . But she was very helpful in deciphering the announcements in Tamil . About her and mine train arrivals .
Apparently , hers was arriving on 5 and mine here on 3. She had been waiting on 3 for the last two hours and me on 5 .Touche . We had a good laugh over this . Then she heaved her large cloth bag and slowly limped ( varicose veins on the leg , another thing we both had in common ) , disappearing into the crowd .
I found myself alone , once again , in a sea of blabbering humanity .
After some time , another gentleman arrived . Sat next to me . Looking at me quizzically , trying to profile me . He was visibly relieved when I talked to him in Bengali.
His sister had come with him , for surgery . He gave some vague details about her illness. Evasive , reluctant replies . He pointed to his sister , who had undergone hysterectomy , and was sitting with a group of saree clad women some three-four benches away . He was kind enough to tell me where exactly my coach would land .
Finally , my train arrived , just two minutes late . I heaved my suitcase full of human effects and greed , on board . Turned to see Katpadi slowly inching away , entering greenery lined blue mountains , fields on both the sides , full of light green paddy fields .
