SAHARSA GARIB RATH

SAHARSA GARIB RATH 

‘Suraj beta,’ said Colonel Veer Pratap, looking up from the rifle he was cleaning, ‘Your nani wishes

to visit us this Akshaya Tritiya. She is getting on in her years and I would like you to go to Lucknow and escort her back. This will also give you something to do whilst you await the fate of your applications for your undergraduate studies abroad.’

Suraj, the Colonel’s elder son was glued to his newly acquired latest Apple i-Phone—a gift from

his doting mother on ‘completing school’.

‘Hpmf . . . don’t even know if the foolish civilian will score enough to get him into a foreign

university. And he so desperately needs to get out of India—there is no future here,’ the Colonel had grumbled, but knew better than to rebuke his wife.

Reluctantly, Suraj weaned himself away from his toy and gave his father a glassy look. ‘Can I drive

down in our new BMW X6?’ There would have to be a perk, he felt, in the terrible ordeal his father

was subjecting him to.

The Colonel, used to long years of people snapping their heels in attention when he addressed them, felt slighted seeing his gangly, bunched-up son in ill-fitting jeans and tousled hair. ‘Smart’ phones make people stupid and rob them of their physical well-being as well! he felt.

‘Of course, not! It’s over hours and Nani will not be able to take the rigours of road travel. Take a

flight. Leave on Thursday and return on Saturday. Dismissed.’

‘Okay,’ sighed Suraj resigned to the fact that his father had the last word in his house.

The firearm in Colonel’s hand was a Westley Richards drop-lock double rifle. Despite having

retired from the army after an illustrious military career, the passion for guns remained. In a cherry hardwood cabinet next to him was a collection of the world’s best firearms—muzzle loaded, breech loaded, carbines and revolvers.

It was rumoured that the cabinet itself was worth a fortune. But then, in the Pratap household, everything reeked of opulence. The family, comprising the Colonel, his wife Sudha and their two sons, lived in the posh Defence Colony in New Delhi in a palatial three-storeyed house with sprawling lawns.

It was rumoured that the Colonel had made his billions by influencing large purchase of defence

contracts in the army and was extremely well connected politically. These discussions were, of course, in hushed tones—urban India equates wealth with respectability and hence the family enjoyed immense clout and deference in the city and outside.

As Suraj rose to go to his room, Colonel added, ‘Please ensure that you travel economy class

while going and business class on return.’ Despite his abundant wealth Colonel did not believe in unnecessary expenditure and this discipline had stood him in good stead all his life.

‘What! Travel cattle class?’ fretted Suraj as he plonked himself at his desk and switched on his

laptop. He shared his father’s deep dislike for this country and was counting the days when he would fly to beautiful lands afar.

The Colonel’s wife Sudha, hearing raised voices, came into the room with a bowl in one hand

which contained her work-in-process for the sweetmeats she was preparing for the upcoming ceremony on Monday. The Pratap family had the best cooks in town, but the annual puja was sacrosanct and required the lady of the house to prepare at least one dish as an offering for the gods.

‘Why are you screaming at poor Suraj’? she asked, putting more vigour on the batter with her

spoon.

‘Another bloody civilian!’ thought the Colonel. ‘You heard me wrong, my dear . . . just too many

years in the army I guess,’ the Colonel tried to chortle at his own joke. The honey in his voice would have put the sweetness of Sudha’s preparations to shame.

‘Huh!’snorted Sudha. ‘I heard you a mile away in the kitchen. The poor boy will soon be gone. Why are you after his life?’

The Colonel looked up, his voice steeling a little. ‘It will be a good experience for him to fend for

himself. Perhaps along the way he will grow up.’ Looking down and resuming his barrel cleaning, he added under his breath, ‘You will then have enough time to devote yourself to spoiling the younger one silly.’

But Sudha had already walked away in a huff.

On Thursday morning at 7 a.m., Suraj stood ready to leave for the airport, while his mother applied vermillion on his forehead and made him sip a spoon of customary curd, believed to augur a safe journey.

Smoking a pipe, the Colonel stood fidgeting next to the Audi Q7 which was to take Suraj to the

airport, the air-conditioner and the engine running for a good ten minutes. Concerns of global warming and depletion of fossil fuel reserves clearly did not trouble the Pratap household.

Finally, the Colonel’s patience gave up. ‘Hurry up for Christ’s sake . . . why all this fuss? He’s not

going to a bloody war, is he?’ Then he caught his wife’s frosty stare and vented his spleen on the

driver. ‘And why have you kept the engine running? Bloody waste!’ he said and stormed off into the house.

Sudha watched her husband going in and surreptitiously pressed ten thousand rupees into Suraj’s hand, ‘This is some money for the journey, buy and eat whatever you wish!’ she said.

Vivek, the driver, forlornly watched more than half his monthly wages disappear into the depths of Suraj’s designer jeans.

Half an hour later, Suraj was dropped off at the Terminal 1D of the New Delhi airport. The flight

was thankfully on time and Suraj wrinkled his nose at the people jostling for space and seats in a cramped cabin as the flight was running at full capacity. It reinforced the images in his mind of cattle jostling for space in a pen. ‘Cattle class!’ he muttered under his breath.

Finding his aisle seat, he settled down, strapped on his seatbelt and plugged his i-Pod headphones to his ear, carving out an isolated world of music from the bedlam around him. He thought about his future, unchartered countries, universities, applications, and apprehensions, and drifted off to sleep.

Suddenly he felt himself being shaken rudely and awoke to panic all around. The elderly lady next to him was praying with her eyes closed, hands folded and mumbling incoherently. The oversized businessman sitting next to the window with a gold chain round his neck was pointing out of the window with his fat fingers, each of which had a ring on it, and telling no one in particular, ‘Oh my God! Look! We are doomed!’

A number of passengers from the aisle seats had moved to the emergency row to have a better view from the window. Wisps of black smoke were billowing from under the right wing and the shuddering sound of the propeller was almost drowning the shrieks, cries and shouts inside the aircraft with the passengers in various states of emotional disarray.

Suraj looked at his watch. They had been airborne for about a little over an hour.

For the first time in his life, Suraj felt fear. He felt as if the bottom from his heart had suddenly

given way and he was going into free fall. He felt the bile rising and his mouth going dry.

The pilot’s voice cut across the maelstrom, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please return to your seats and put on your seatbelts. We need to make an emergency landing at the Trishul airport in Bareilly. It is the air force’s private airport but will allow us in. Please maintain calm to help us make a safe landing.’

Passengers scrambled back to their seats with everyone talking, praying and crying. Air hostesses moved along the aisle with brave smiles on their faces, trying to calm passengers. Their training was being put to test.

Soon, through the still billowing smoke from the right wing, Suraj could see the grass and the

ground rushing to meet the aircraft. With a loud thud, the Boeing landed, careened, corrected itself on the rudimentary runway, and came to a shuddering halt. The passengers who till now had been clutching to their arm-rests for dear life, couldn’t wait to get off. Soon the aisle was crowded with people pushing and swearing.

As soon as they reached the cool interiors of the terminal building, confusion prevailed, with

passengers shouting and jostling around a make-shift enquiry desk, ‘Where is our checked-in luggage?’; ‘How do we go to Lucknow?’; ‘Is a replacement plane coming?’; ‘We should sue the

airline!’

Suraj, still shaken from the terrifying ordeal, wondered at the human ability to swing from

insecurity and fear in one instance to anger and assertiveness in the next.

Despite the trauma of suddenly being yanked from the confines of his sheltered life, Suraj was able to think clearly. He realized that this news would be all over television. He exited the airport building and called home to calm his parents, mainly his hysterical mother, and spurned her offer of a private helicopter pick up. In his own diffident and uncertain way, he was keen to prove to his father that he could handle himself on his own in this world. He explained that he was trying to find alternate transport to Lucknow and asked them to call Nani and explain the situation.

He was able to access the Internet on his phone and decided that his best option would be to travel to the railway station eleven kilometres away and try and get on to the Saharsa Garib Rath which was coming in from Moradabad junction and due to arrive at Bareilly station at 11.30 a.m. If he could catch it, he would be in Lucknow by 5 or 6 p.m. Earlier, Suraj could not have imagined travelling in anything other than an air-conditioned private car, but this choice of transport did not exist. Instinctively, he also debated on whether he had adequate funds for the journey, learning quickly that in a crisis, conservation was the key.

Suraj realized that soon the crowd would come out and try to access the railway and the bus

stations. He looked around desperately and found a small gaggle of cycle-rickshaws under a large banyan tree. He walked quickly, now sweating freely under the hot May sun. He supposed that the animated discussion amongst the rickshaw pullers would be on how much to fleece the stranded passengers as this business had landed on their collective laps as manna from heaven.

Suraj did not flinch or bargain when they asked him for a hundred rupees to take him to the railway station and quickly climbed on one, clutching his backpack, thankful that he was travelling light.

The sensibilities of an average upper class Indian are assaulted at the sight of most railway stations and Bareilly station was no exception. At the mercy of erratic train timings, people slept freely on newspapers or otherwise on the floor, oblivious to the heat and the buzzing flies. Suraj was aghast at the sight. He picked his way gingerly to the ticket counter, shuddering at the filth touching his new Nike sneakers.

There was no crowd at the ticket counter, allowing the clerk within the luxury of picking his nose. In the act, he asked Suraj his destination.

Trying to hide his disgust, Suraj asked for an AC first class ticket and the clerk roared with

laughter.

‘This is India, young man,’ he said, wiping sweat with his idle arm, ‘I can give you a GC ticket.’

Having no idea what a GC was, Suraj nodded, surprised that it cost him less than a cold coffee.

The clerk punched a ticket and tossed it at him with the errant hand. Shuddering, Suraj used the

change to cover the ticket. ‘Platform 5, coming in ten minutes,’ the clerk called behind him, even as Suraj made a dash for it.

Running on the overbridge, Suraj was appalled by the sight of beggars and squalor and saw the

train streaming in, as he ran down the steps to the platform.

‘Where is the GC?’ he shouted to passengers rushing past him. A vendor carrying peeled

cucumbers said, ‘Follow me!’ and Suraj soon found himself sucked into a jampacked compartment with the stench of sweat and urine from the toilets overpowering him.

He felt faint. An elderly couple on seeing him, offered him space and he somehow managed to sit down. They offered him water from a beaten plastic bottle and Suraj had little option but to drink from it. He felt somewhat calmer and soon the swaying coach and the wind rushing in soothed him. He made small conversation with the couple and a young man sitting across, clutching his backpack to his chest all the while.

The quaint sights and sounds of the continuous flow of hawkers soon did not seem oppressive to Suraj any more. He bought some of the cool and freshly peeled cucumber sprinkled with salt from the vendor who had helped him, and it assuaged his hunger a bit. Suraj was learning the art of adaptation quickly.

Suddenly, a blind vendor came into the compartment, selling tops which people allowed him to spin on the floor. As the top spun, it opened out like a flower and lights within flickered accompanied by music.

‘Magic tops, magic tops!’ roared the vendor as those standing helped him lean against the seat.

‘Give it to your child, your elderly father, your nagging wife, or your bored lover! Entertainment

for everyone! Rupees thirty, only rupees thirty!’ His voice rose full of life, even as his lifeless eyes seemed to roam in every direction trying to detect a buyer for his wares. He was a rotund and dirty man with unkempt hair and an unshaven face. He carried the tops in an open bag slung on his shoulder and felt his way around with a wobbly stick.

A few people took pity and bought a top each. Suraj wondered how a blind man would complete the transaction. What he saw next amazed him.

Those buying gave their money to the blind man. He then reached out to his small pile of currency

and held it out for the buyers to enable them pick out the notes, making up the exact change to be returned.

The elderly man saw Suraj’s amazement and said, ‘They will never cheat him. Have nots do not rob from have nots.’

The blind vendor soon left but returned at an unscheduled stop, crying profusely. He fell down on the dirty compartment floor and used his stick to sweep under the seats. As soon as he finished one seat, he got up and swept the next. A crowd gathered around him as he moved and Suraj could not understand what had happened.

The young man across Suraj who had got up to 

investigate came back shaking his head, ‘Poor

fellow cannot find five toys in his bag. He has to give the balance toys and the money to the merchant at Lucknow. Where will this poor fellow get a hundred and fifty rupees from?’

Suraj took out the money and said, ‘Please give this to him. Please calm him down.’

In the compartment, the earlier hostile stares changed to one of respect for Suraj. All tried to calm down the vendor, who cried even more and refused to take the money. Finally he relented and fell, clutching Suraj’s feet, weeping. Suraj’s eyes filled up and he took the man by his shoulders and helped him up, unmindful for the first time of what his hand touched.

The blind vendor left, showering blessings for Suraj and his family. Pulling the chain, he stopped the train and got down.

Suraj sat deep in thought, looking at the vast open fields rushing past outside, even as the sun

dipped down bringing to close a very hot day.

At the Hardoi stop, an hour away from Lucknow, there was a sudden commotion. Sweating and

panting, the blind vendor burst into the compartment, hurting and cutting himself while trying to get up the steps from the platform. He was smiling and clearly overjoyed. Groping and searching the compartment and asking people, he came to Suraj. In his hand he clutched the hundred and fifty rupees that Suraj had given him. He excitedly narrated that nine compartments ahead, a group of small

children had picked up the toys from his open bag. When he went back searching compartment from compartment after getting the money from Suraj, the parents had returned his wares and had apologized for their children’s behaviour. He had come back against all odds to return Suraj his money.

Suraj was speechless.

After the ceremony and the celebrations on Monday back home, Suraj approached the Colonel.

‘Dad,’ he said, ‘I have decided that I will not go abroad for my undergraduate studies. I wish to

stay here.’

When the Colonel furiously tried to protest, Suraj for the first time held up his hand, ‘Please hear

me out, Father. I have not shared my experiences of my journey on Garib Rath. And with the wealth that I have earned from that single ride, it seems unfair to call the train Garib Rath—a chariot for the poor.’

Father and son spoke deep into the night.