Travel diary 2

“ Less than three hours from Mumbai and its plutocrats and boasters, this was the India of the hut, the cow dung fire, the bean field, the buffalo, the ox cart and the bicycle of debt and drought and death..” Paul Theroux- Ghost train to Eastern Star

Each year, my summer vacation starts and ends in a retreat of sorts- spending almost 2 days ensconced in a metal capsule tearing through the fabric of India… the route has been different, the beauty of landscape- each unique from the other but what amazes me is that the India I know of and boast about is hardly the true India that I see …

Each year we are coaxed, cajoled and ultimately anointed with words and promises by our leaders- the so called people’s man who screams and shouts and paints a glorified India… and we bray and scream and shout in return in that reflected glory…  giving examples of how so and so NRI is now head of so and so company, how some other country’s parliament and senate is getting filled with Indians...  and we go to sleep… happy in our two bedroom with AC above a small garage with a small car home… happy that our leader has promised a better day tomorrow. So what that its only for me..  a small section of the people who make up India..  the rest...  well the rest is still walking…  mocking and defying this mad rush towards self-gratification that has begun to hypnotize and devour India. They are the ones who make my India great. They do not make you forget them… they are there... right at the horizon…  spread in tarpaulin covered hutments next to huge gated communities with manicured gardens looking like a high society candy wife.

Another sleepy station passes by… the platforms are empty under the high noon. A few wait on the cement benches under the asbestos shade. They have that posture of eternal wait… as if the bench itself was carved around them… their eyes vacant, lost in thought. It looks to me that they are born waiting… waiting for a better tomorrow. As if they have lost hope in today… and so it is to be chugged out like the train through a tunnel; trudged along so that tomorrow comes early. A few vendors have made it to the AC compartment selling juice and cold drinks. Each one has a unique voice … akin to the rainforest mating calls… juss le lo.. juss.. paani butol.. paani butol… isccee.. isscee… expectant and timid.

Evening creeps into the compartment. A junction… the train stops here for some time… a fellow passenger occupies the berth opposite me. There’s a briefcase which he diligently locks up with a chain and padlock. He looks up at me, dismisses at one glance and settles down with a newspaper. He is soon joined by another. The two work for a medical company in high post… soon a few young men come to say hello. The two middle aged persons ask for water, biscuits and chai. The young men are diffident. Their eyes tell me the same story of eternal wait- wait for a promotion… a good word… some inside tip to make the bosses happy to get that corner office; they are the living, breathing advertisements of that flashy… German silver kind of modern India.

From time to time, each one tries to gauge me, wondering whether I am  married …  do I have children… is my husband going to come… the surreptitious look at my fingers, neck and forehead tells me that. I do not have the black beaded chain or the vermillion or the ring to mark me as an already possessed property. I peek out of the window… the farmers are returning from the fields… herding the cattle. Each one’s cattle has a different colour as a mark to show whose property they are. The wife walks behind… with 3 huge jars of water on her head… above the vermillion marked forehead and beaded black chain. 

The two men are arguing—some news in the paper has upset one of them…I lose interest as it is again that story about reflected glory… whether demonetization has helped or not. One boasts how he has helped the driver… the other not to be outdone, talks about how the maids were given full salary even under constraint. Both optimistic that their huge sacrifices will bring in a stronger economy…but they fall silent soon and gaze out of the window lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly the silence is broken by a popular Hindi song… it’s the mobile phone of one man ringing. The wife has called to know whether he is comfortable and then some inane talk. I hear instructions of what to do with the five thousand left in the bedroom drawer… who gets what… no meat or eggs to be bought till he comes back. He ends the call and settles down to have his lunch made at home. Thus spoke the patriarch running his workers, home, providing for everyone… the old Zaminder like aura around him. The other strikes up a conversation with me… where am I going? From where? What about my dinner? He has a niece of my age working in Bangalore… the new tinsel town of middle class dreams… filled with PG accommodations of young men and women who more than the job, value their freedom to enjoy their youth away from the middle class prejudices and rules… the lure of sex, alcohol and freedom… a delusional life glorifying India. I smile. Then the inevitable… am I married? At my answer, the usual advice- marriage brings stability, there is someone to take care of me when sick etc. How his niece had to be brought home due to a sudden appendectomy… how the parents forced her not to return without marrying. This is again what I like about my India, advice and the territory of wisdom that inevitably comes with age… so I relent and make myself look interested to indulge him. He continues… working is good… every girl should work… what use is education if you cannot work. How he, the uncle has arranged a wonderful match for the said niece.  I ask timidly what she does now. A big smile… he shows me some photos in his mobile…the girl… with huge vermillion mark on the forehead holding a baby… and the same vacant look of expectation for a tomorrow. She delivered a healthy boy last week… all is good… she has a caring husband… there are two maids working for her. The husband has great prospect, he will leave for Germany at the year end.

Night has fallen outside. The train moves… wobbling and rolling like a toddler through the fields and vast expanse of rural India. Specks of light flashes by… a completely dark field passes by with silhouettes of hills… a large billboard with the advertisement about the latest programme of the government… all level crossings to be electronically operated across India at a huge expense with a happy couple from rural India smiling out towards the darkened fields and me.

I like the nights in the train… especially on full moon nights… a surreal and ethereal feeling of being one with the universe. But this time it is during the new moon phase… there is a tiny crescent moon at the horizon. It is amazing how some events make you see the everyday mundane things in new light. I have found out that I have started to dislike that crescent shape… too many memories and conjectures around it. This moon reminds me of the weak thread holding up India… a lofty ideal of solidarity and friendship that is proved to be as frail as the train I am travelling in. The rail roads of India is a legacy of British… many of the tracks are too old to carry the teeming growth of population. Each year we are promised everything better including state of the art rail service. It is the most coveted portfolio of the ministry just like the post of director in a little known company  in some far corner of India. It is all powerful cesspool of corruption. But we Indians are never short on praising nor are we short in giving advice. We are the modern day reminder of Gaelic people that Wordsworth spoke about. We are fascinating in our survival- an ancient culture with all its prejudices, myths, and superstitions in the face of the chugging metal mammoth of Modernity and Capitalist values.

As the lights dim and this tiny slice of India settles down for the night, I open the curtain and look up at the sky. Clouds have moved now, the sky is speckled with stars, smiling down. I know that if anyone would care to take my photo now, I too would have that look of expectation, dreams and of a tomorrow that is rose tinted. Till then lets rock and tumble and whistle through this fabric woven with dreams, tears and passion that I call my India.