I sit on a half-broken bench at a rather empty stretch of the platform with the setting sun casting its weak rays onto my tired eyes, my luggage placed awkwardly on my lap, my throbbing head tucked into my chest, my stomach aching, my muscles full with the lactic acid build-up and my throat parched with an unusual thirst that just wouldn’t disappear even after having emptied two bottles of mineral water into it.
I am at Hazrat Nizamuddin station in New Delhi and it is somewhere in the last week of June 2014. The harsh North Indian summer is putting up its last, brave fight before it fades away for good, for almost a year, and then it shall return next May. I am severely nauseated for quite some time now accompanied by a very strong aversion to the sight and smell of food. Even a passing reference to the word makes me want to puke. I look at my watch and it says half an hour to go before sunset. My train which will be my escape to Mumbai will arrive half an hour before midnight. This means waiting another five hours in this strangulating atmosphere. My intestines churn when I arrive at this conclusion. I occasionally look up to check on the creepy-looking rag-picker who has made himself comfortable on the edge of the platform. I curse when I catch him staring at me. Or is it my bag that he has got his eyes on?
I start wondering about the day that passed behind me. I had arrived at the New Delhi station just early today by the Rajdhani Express, the most pampered and favored train in the Indian Railways. And what a fruitful journey that was! My co-passengers were all people holding some of the most enviable positions and jobs and had a lot to talk and share about their accomplishments among themselves. A retired government service man who was now a full-time voice actor for television soaps, his son an eminent cardiologist; an old man with Gandhi spectacles, a wavy beard, a free-flowing mustache, and his hair tied up in a ponytail who might as well have had the words ‘intellectual journalist’ written over his forehead (he was one by the way); a research scholar in mathematics (of all subjects!) who was on his way to the Clay Institute – which if you don’t know is Hogwarts to math wizards; and a Delhi based woman and her two-year-old son who now lived in Mumbai with her husband.
Together, they all discussed issues. Everything from the mundane and commonplace to the more serious ones like politics and economics. The journalist was particularly sympathetic to the AAP and that piqued my interest in his views and conclusions about the fall of the party-led government in Delhi. The cardiologist spoke about increasing coronary diseases among Indians and how one day we will overtake Americans in that regard! The voice actor simply rambled about his adventures and the people he dubbed for on television. The housewife recognized every name he mentioned with the enthusiasm of a teenager who just got to meet a band member from One Direction. The others though, sat scratching their heads, bored out of their heads by his impassive storytelling.
‘You don’t dub for film actors?’, the journalist asked finally.
This visibly irritated the voice actor beyond measure and he then did not speak for the remainder of the journey. The woman, for her part, kept going on and on about why she thought Mumbai was a much better place than Delhi (I know lady!).
In the midst of all this elderly talk, there was another interested listener like me. Her name was Shivani Pete. She was perhaps two years older and ridiculously beautiful with a face carved out with queen-like features – a Roman nose, high cheekbones, eyebrows that conveyed control, and olive skin that was adequately tanned thanks to the Mumbai heat. She was traveling to attend her first semester at the Delhi School of Economics. Though she was seated next to me, we didn’t talk much initially. But I could tell from whatever little she spoke that she was one of those rare kinds. That down-to-the-scale combination of beauty and brains. No, I wasn’t attracted to her nor was it one of those senseless love/infatuation at first sight scenarios. I was, truth be told, highly impressed.
When the old men got tired of all the non-stop talking, I searched for an apt conversation starter to engage with her. You are not a flirt, I reminded myself as I thought of a perfect line. I looked at her and she was eating yogurt out of a plastic container. She had requested an extra box from the waiter and the bewitched man had given in. She was finishing off the final bits when I finally managed to spit it out. ‘It's lactobacillus. Good for your stomach’ I said that and flashed a smile that ran from ear to ear as if I had spotlessly uttered a Shakespearean quote on Broadway.
Now this line could have been an enormously epic fail with every other girl on the planet. Mentioning some lowly gut bacteria in your first sentence with a female is not exactly what they call ‘smooth'. I could already picture all those ‘stud gurus’ from shit-soaked MTV programs shaking their heads at me in discernible contempt.
But this one was different. ‘Biology student ha?’ she smiled back. And then it began. Never in my life had I come across a girl so aligned about things that mattered to me. Things like your country, its diabolical neighbors, its unsteady economy, its uniquely structured political architecture, its still ethical refusal to permanently side as an ally with any superpower in the world, and the list runs pages.
We agreed on almost everything and disagreed on a great deal too. The biggest difference in opinion was the time when she matter-of-factly blurted out that the concept of development in this country is so clichéd and so far from the truth and that in reality, India fares far worse than even some of the most poverty-stricken African nations. India was in fact still a major Third World country, she had said. I argued to the contrary. I asked her to look at India’s space programs, her status as an undeniable stakeholder in global markets of multinational companies and nations themselves, and also the line-up of states all over the world that wanted to make strategic and economic treaties with her. She shook her head at this and replied that a country does not attain greatness by its triumphs outside, it attains greatness by the quality of living among the people that exist under its name, the amenities they receive, and the social, political, and economic harmony that prevail therein. And in this regard, India was nowhere within a hundred miles of being labeled a world leader.
I couldn’t argue further. I had a valid point. But she had a valid point too. I checked the time and it was approaching three in the morning. ‘How about we catch some sleep? Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” She took the cue to end this never-ending debate and climbed up the berth and laid down. I spent another hour looking through the window at the darkened silhouette of the trees melting away outside before my eyes closed and I fell asleep.
The train creaked into the New Delhi railway station at exactly nine in the morning and I got down with my luggage – a backpack and a small carry-on bag. She got down with her luggage – a minaudiere clutched in her right hand, a backpack, and a travel bag half her size. It was so immense she could have easily stuffed a dead body in and no one would have suspected a thing. We took the underground metro that lay opposite the station and separated at Moolchand. Simple goodbyes and courtesies were exchanged as she left the metro cabin and I watched her disappear into the office-going morning crowd. That would be the last I ever saw or heard of her. The philosophy of a ‘single-serving friend’ from the movie Fight Club sprang into my head. Edward Norton was right after all.
I reached my college by ten thirty and finished my job by eleven. I then waited half an hour for Kabeer. He is the younger brother of my teacher at graduation college. He arrives and looks, talks, laughs, and behaves the same way as his elder brother. The similarities are so striking that I had to message my teacher halfway through the conversation about it. Also, like his brother, Kabeer too is an absolute foodie. His eyes beamed with excitement around mid-afternoon.
‘Chalo, aaj tumhe Dilli ka khaana khilaata hu!’ Come, today I will show you the food of Delhi!
Half an hour later we were seated at a very famous Mughlai restaurant near the university. Smoke from hot tandoors serenaded our way with the refreshing odor of charred flesh. I hadn’t eaten much since I got off the train so I made it a point to gobble up as much as I could. The waiter arrived and I asked Kabeer to order the best dish on the menu.
‘One chicken kadai full, one chicken tikka full, and six butter rotis. Oh, and before that get two plates of shawarma as starters.’ he shot off at the waiter whose eyes darted from Kabeer to me repeatedly as he took the order, a genuine look of surprise visible in his eyes.
I too was astonished at the sheer quantity of food that was being ordered for just the two of us. I leaned across the table and spoke in a hushed voice not wanting the waiter to hear. ‘Are you sure Kabeer? This much?’
“Arree don’t worry Altaf Bhai. I will adjust!” he said and laughed heartily, much to the vexation of the other customers. I, too couldn’t control myself and joined in.
I always had a low appetite, so it was natural for me to get full just fifteen minutes into the feast. Kabeer though was still going sturdy and looked like he had space for another item or two on the menu. He pompously declared how his was a family of people who just went wild bananas over food (It was only later that my teacher told me that Kabeer could eat one kilogram of mutton in just one sitting. My word!).
We stepped out of the restaurant and moved towards the ring road. Kabeer asked me what time my train was and I told him it was at eleven thirty that night. He invited me to stay over at his place till nightfall maybe freshen up a bit, take a bath or so, sleep an hour or two, watch a bit of television. I was tempted but I declined. The reason was that Kabeer was staying with his friend who in turn was staying at the winter residence (in summer!) of his aunt. Barging into the house of my teacher’s brother’s friend’s rented apartment unannounced isn’t exactly good manners. He pressed. But I still refused, giving him a thousand inconsequential and fatuous reasons until he relented. He hauled a rickshaw for me and bargained with the driver for over a minute about the right price to Nizamuddin Station. “Dilli ka hi hu. C****ya mat banao mujhe.”, he said repeatedly until they finally agreed on a fee, no love lost between them. I got in and thanked Kabeer for making my day and also hoped we meet again when our semester starts. He guffawed again, this time even louder, and waved off my thank yous with a brush of his hand.
That was then and this is now. I snap back to reality. My co-passengers, Shivani, Kabeer, the chicken tikkas, and shawarmas, everyone, and everything felt so distant and illusory. Nebulous memories from a forgotten past life. My physical discomforts which had given me a temporary leeway have found their way back in. Looking back now, the decision to reject Kabeer’s offer seems such a huge blooper, one even bigger than Napoleon’s decision to challenge the Royal British Navy. Napoleon at least went into exile after his gaffe. I for one, am trapped in this ostensible hellhole of a place, gasping for breath with every passing minute.
I look at my watch. Time has moved. But at a snail’s pace. It’s still only seven forty. Almost four hours still left to sublimate. I fervently wish and pray that time passes off like it does when you watch a good movie or when you play a game of cricket. Four hours seem such a short period then, it seems so long now.
I see people forming a queue under the supervision of a police constable on the platform next to the one I am on. They are lining up for a ‘first come first serve’ entry into the unreserved local compartments of long-distance passenger trains. The ones where you have to forget your seat when you go take a piss. An idea sparkles inside me. I pick up my phone and log into the Indian Railway app. Usually, it is like what you expect from a government application – slow and taxing, it makes you want to pull your hair out in anticipation. But luckily this time it jumps to life in an instant. I flick through the list of Mumbai-bound trains this evening. I find one. I can’t exactly recollect the name but this one starts out from here at exactly eight forty-five and reaches Mumbai by four in the evening the next day. The ticket I have in hand currently belongs to the eleven-thirty train and it is waitlisted. If the confirmation doesn’t come through, I travel to Mumbai sitting near the toilets. With just a few hours to go, that seems highly improbable. On the other hand, I could get a local ticket and travel on this train that I have just fished out from the app. But that means sacrificing a possible seat and the obvious comfort that comes with it. But I also can’t take to this waiting business anymore and desperately want to be on the first train that gets me out of this netherworld. I am in a dilemma. I have to make a decision. Should I or should I not? To be or not be? Aristotle’s classic metaphysical question.
It is then that memories and images from my childhood come dancing past me like logs of wood on a free-flowing river. Memories of the elders in my life, my uncles, aunts, father – especially my father – constantly lecturing me and my brother about how we had an easy and ‘silver platter’ childhood. How they had it hard and exhausting, how they walked for miles to school and back, how they lived without electricity for most of their infancy, and how they left homes, families, friends, and foes, in search of a better life. “You never had to worry about that my son!” my dad would often proclaim emphatically. Behind all these constant reminders of their arduous and demanding childhood and adolescence and youth, I had always felt the presence of a slight insinuation. An insinuation that we, having lived in a city were soft and tender, an insinuation that we were a people who would wince and cry at the first sight of hardship, an insinuation that we could never even think of stepping out of our comfort zone, an insinuation that we were sissies.
Of course, this was my smothered and suffocating brain whipping out these dumb ideas but at this particular moment, they seemed so logical and true. It increased my determination. I wanted to prove to my father and my uncles and aunts that I too am forged with the same metal as them, that I could do things that they thought were impossible for me. And what was a better opportunity than the one that had presented itself now? Me traveling in the local compartment of a passenger train with hardwood seats and no berth to sleep and no space to tuck my baggage in. That would make a good story to tell!
And this was the tipping scale. I turn towards the ticketing counter that lay behind me and stroll in with the determination to buy a single local ticket to Mumbai.
Little did I know that this decision would prove to be one of the worst that I have ever made and that I would be made to suffer for this sudden burst of imprudence in me. It will teach me what a vain thing a fool’s idea of glory is!
I am at Hazrat Nizamuddin station in New Delhi and it is somewhere in the last week of June 2014. The harsh North Indian summer is putting up its last, brave fight before it fades away for good, for almost a year, and then it shall return next May. I am severely nauseated for quite some time now accompanied by a very strong aversion to the sight and smell of food. Even a passing reference to the word makes me want to puke. I look at my watch and it says half an hour to go before sunset. My train which will be my escape to Mumbai will arrive half an hour before midnight. This means waiting another five hours in this strangulating atmosphere. My intestines churn when I arrive at this conclusion. I occasionally look up to check on the creepy-looking rag-picker who has made himself comfortable on the edge of the platform. I curse when I catch him staring at me. Or is it my bag that he has got his eyes on?
I start wondering about the day that passed behind me. I had arrived at the New Delhi station just early today by the Rajdhani Express, the most pampered and favored train in the Indian Railways. And what a fruitful journey that was! My co-passengers were all people holding some of the most enviable positions and jobs and had a lot to talk and share about their accomplishments among themselves. A retired government service man who was now a full-time voice actor for television soaps, his son an eminent cardiologist; an old man with Gandhi spectacles, a wavy beard, a free-flowing mustache, and his hair tied up in a ponytail who might as well have had the words ‘intellectual journalist’ written over his forehead (he was one by the way); a research scholar in mathematics (of all subjects!) who was on his way to the Clay Institute – which if you don’t know is Hogwarts to math wizards; and a Delhi based woman and her two-year-old son who now lived in Mumbai with her husband.
Together, they all discussed issues. Everything from the mundane and commonplace to the more serious ones like politics and economics. The journalist was particularly sympathetic to the AAP and that piqued my interest in his views and conclusions about the fall of the party-led government in Delhi. The cardiologist spoke about increasing coronary diseases among Indians and how one day we will overtake Americans in that regard! The voice actor simply rambled about his adventures and the people he dubbed for on television. The housewife recognized every name he mentioned with the enthusiasm of a teenager who just got to meet a band member from One Direction. The others though, sat scratching their heads, bored out of their heads by his impassive storytelling.
‘You don’t dub for film actors?’, the journalist asked finally.
This visibly irritated the voice actor beyond measure and he then did not speak for the remainder of the journey. The woman, for her part, kept going on and on about why she thought Mumbai was a much better place than Delhi (I know lady!).
In the midst of all this elderly talk, there was another interested listener like me. Her name was Shivani Pete. She was perhaps two years older and ridiculously beautiful with a face carved out with queen-like features – a Roman nose, high cheekbones, eyebrows that conveyed control, and olive skin that was adequately tanned thanks to the Mumbai heat. She was traveling to attend her first semester at the Delhi School of Economics. Though she was seated next to me, we didn’t talk much initially. But I could tell from whatever little she spoke that she was one of those rare kinds. That down-to-the-scale combination of beauty and brains. No, I wasn’t attracted to her nor was it one of those senseless love/infatuation at first sight scenarios. I was, truth be told, highly impressed.
When the old men got tired of all the non-stop talking, I searched for an apt conversation starter to engage with her. You are not a flirt, I reminded myself as I thought of a perfect line. I looked at her and she was eating yogurt out of a plastic container. She had requested an extra box from the waiter and the bewitched man had given in. She was finishing off the final bits when I finally managed to spit it out. ‘It's lactobacillus. Good for your stomach’ I said that and flashed a smile that ran from ear to ear as if I had spotlessly uttered a Shakespearean quote on Broadway.
Now this line could have been an enormously epic fail with every other girl on the planet. Mentioning some lowly gut bacteria in your first sentence with a female is not exactly what they call ‘smooth'. I could already picture all those ‘stud gurus’ from shit-soaked MTV programs shaking their heads at me in discernible contempt.
But this one was different. ‘Biology student ha?’ she smiled back. And then it began. Never in my life had I come across a girl so aligned about things that mattered to me. Things like your country, its diabolical neighbors, its unsteady economy, its uniquely structured political architecture, its still ethical refusal to permanently side as an ally with any superpower in the world, and the list runs pages.
We agreed on almost everything and disagreed on a great deal too. The biggest difference in opinion was the time when she matter-of-factly blurted out that the concept of development in this country is so clichéd and so far from the truth and that in reality, India fares far worse than even some of the most poverty-stricken African nations. India was in fact still a major Third World country, she had said. I argued to the contrary. I asked her to look at India’s space programs, her status as an undeniable stakeholder in global markets of multinational companies and nations themselves, and also the line-up of states all over the world that wanted to make strategic and economic treaties with her. She shook her head at this and replied that a country does not attain greatness by its triumphs outside, it attains greatness by the quality of living among the people that exist under its name, the amenities they receive, and the social, political, and economic harmony that prevail therein. And in this regard, India was nowhere within a hundred miles of being labeled a world leader.
I couldn’t argue further. I had a valid point. But she had a valid point too. I checked the time and it was approaching three in the morning. ‘How about we catch some sleep? Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” She took the cue to end this never-ending debate and climbed up the berth and laid down. I spent another hour looking through the window at the darkened silhouette of the trees melting away outside before my eyes closed and I fell asleep.
The train creaked into the New Delhi railway station at exactly nine in the morning and I got down with my luggage – a backpack and a small carry-on bag. She got down with her luggage – a minaudiere clutched in her right hand, a backpack, and a travel bag half her size. It was so immense she could have easily stuffed a dead body in and no one would have suspected a thing. We took the underground metro that lay opposite the station and separated at Moolchand. Simple goodbyes and courtesies were exchanged as she left the metro cabin and I watched her disappear into the office-going morning crowd. That would be the last I ever saw or heard of her. The philosophy of a ‘single-serving friend’ from the movie Fight Club sprang into my head. Edward Norton was right after all.
I reached my college by ten thirty and finished my job by eleven. I then waited half an hour for Kabeer. He is the younger brother of my teacher at graduation college. He arrives and looks, talks, laughs, and behaves the same way as his elder brother. The similarities are so striking that I had to message my teacher halfway through the conversation about it. Also, like his brother, Kabeer too is an absolute foodie. His eyes beamed with excitement around mid-afternoon.
‘Chalo, aaj tumhe Dilli ka khaana khilaata hu!’ Come, today I will show you the food of Delhi!
Half an hour later we were seated at a very famous Mughlai restaurant near the university. Smoke from hot tandoors serenaded our way with the refreshing odor of charred flesh. I hadn’t eaten much since I got off the train so I made it a point to gobble up as much as I could. The waiter arrived and I asked Kabeer to order the best dish on the menu.
‘One chicken kadai full, one chicken tikka full, and six butter rotis. Oh, and before that get two plates of shawarma as starters.’ he shot off at the waiter whose eyes darted from Kabeer to me repeatedly as he took the order, a genuine look of surprise visible in his eyes.
I too was astonished at the sheer quantity of food that was being ordered for just the two of us. I leaned across the table and spoke in a hushed voice not wanting the waiter to hear. ‘Are you sure Kabeer? This much?’
“Arree don’t worry Altaf Bhai. I will adjust!” he said and laughed heartily, much to the vexation of the other customers. I, too couldn’t control myself and joined in.
I always had a low appetite, so it was natural for me to get full just fifteen minutes into the feast. Kabeer though was still going sturdy and looked like he had space for another item or two on the menu. He pompously declared how his was a family of people who just went wild bananas over food (It was only later that my teacher told me that Kabeer could eat one kilogram of mutton in just one sitting. My word!).
We stepped out of the restaurant and moved towards the ring road. Kabeer asked me what time my train was and I told him it was at eleven thirty that night. He invited me to stay over at his place till nightfall maybe freshen up a bit, take a bath or so, sleep an hour or two, watch a bit of television. I was tempted but I declined. The reason was that Kabeer was staying with his friend who in turn was staying at the winter residence (in summer!) of his aunt. Barging into the house of my teacher’s brother’s friend’s rented apartment unannounced isn’t exactly good manners. He pressed. But I still refused, giving him a thousand inconsequential and fatuous reasons until he relented. He hauled a rickshaw for me and bargained with the driver for over a minute about the right price to Nizamuddin Station. “Dilli ka hi hu. C****ya mat banao mujhe.”, he said repeatedly until they finally agreed on a fee, no love lost between them. I got in and thanked Kabeer for making my day and also hoped we meet again when our semester starts. He guffawed again, this time even louder, and waved off my thank yous with a brush of his hand.
That was then and this is now. I snap back to reality. My co-passengers, Shivani, Kabeer, the chicken tikkas, and shawarmas, everyone, and everything felt so distant and illusory. Nebulous memories from a forgotten past life. My physical discomforts which had given me a temporary leeway have found their way back in. Looking back now, the decision to reject Kabeer’s offer seems such a huge blooper, one even bigger than Napoleon’s decision to challenge the Royal British Navy. Napoleon at least went into exile after his gaffe. I for one, am trapped in this ostensible hellhole of a place, gasping for breath with every passing minute.
I look at my watch. Time has moved. But at a snail’s pace. It’s still only seven forty. Almost four hours still left to sublimate. I fervently wish and pray that time passes off like it does when you watch a good movie or when you play a game of cricket. Four hours seem such a short period then, it seems so long now.
I see people forming a queue under the supervision of a police constable on the platform next to the one I am on. They are lining up for a ‘first come first serve’ entry into the unreserved local compartments of long-distance passenger trains. The ones where you have to forget your seat when you go take a piss. An idea sparkles inside me. I pick up my phone and log into the Indian Railway app. Usually, it is like what you expect from a government application – slow and taxing, it makes you want to pull your hair out in anticipation. But luckily this time it jumps to life in an instant. I flick through the list of Mumbai-bound trains this evening. I find one. I can’t exactly recollect the name but this one starts out from here at exactly eight forty-five and reaches Mumbai by four in the evening the next day. The ticket I have in hand currently belongs to the eleven-thirty train and it is waitlisted. If the confirmation doesn’t come through, I travel to Mumbai sitting near the toilets. With just a few hours to go, that seems highly improbable. On the other hand, I could get a local ticket and travel on this train that I have just fished out from the app. But that means sacrificing a possible seat and the obvious comfort that comes with it. But I also can’t take to this waiting business anymore and desperately want to be on the first train that gets me out of this netherworld. I am in a dilemma. I have to make a decision. Should I or should I not? To be or not be? Aristotle’s classic metaphysical question.
It is then that memories and images from my childhood come dancing past me like logs of wood on a free-flowing river. Memories of the elders in my life, my uncles, aunts, father – especially my father – constantly lecturing me and my brother about how we had an easy and ‘silver platter’ childhood. How they had it hard and exhausting, how they walked for miles to school and back, how they lived without electricity for most of their infancy, and how they left homes, families, friends, and foes, in search of a better life. “You never had to worry about that my son!” my dad would often proclaim emphatically. Behind all these constant reminders of their arduous and demanding childhood and adolescence and youth, I had always felt the presence of a slight insinuation. An insinuation that we, having lived in a city were soft and tender, an insinuation that we were a people who would wince and cry at the first sight of hardship, an insinuation that we could never even think of stepping out of our comfort zone, an insinuation that we were sissies.
Of course, this was my smothered and suffocating brain whipping out these dumb ideas but at this particular moment, they seemed so logical and true. It increased my determination. I wanted to prove to my father and my uncles and aunts that I too am forged with the same metal as them, that I could do things that they thought were impossible for me. And what was a better opportunity than the one that had presented itself now? Me traveling in the local compartment of a passenger train with hardwood seats and no berth to sleep and no space to tuck my baggage in. That would make a good story to tell!
And this was the tipping scale. I turn towards the ticketing counter that lay behind me and stroll in with the determination to buy a single local ticket to Mumbai.
Little did I know that this decision would prove to be one of the worst that I have ever made and that I would be made to suffer for this sudden burst of imprudence in me. It will teach me what a vain thing a fool’s idea of glory is!
