One meaningful journey

Muniguda

I had such familiarity in going to unfamiliar places. So, Muniguda didn't seem too intimidating. The train I was on was anything but an Express. I wasn't complaining anyway, there was no one around to complain to. I couldn't sleep. I had already slept the night and most of the day. The late evening chill pinched my cheeks as I put my face out of the coach door. I could see only what darkness himself could see. The occasional railway line lamps did not add any light to the journey, but it did give hope that the world still existed!

A chirpy, plump railway caterer smiled his way up to me. I returned the smile and asked him what he wanted. "Thats what I wanted to ask you", he said, with near perfect English. I say near perfect as his Telugu accent could not be missed. I laughed and said a tea would suffice. He hopped back to the pantry along with his well kept tummy and I returned to my gazing at nothing. I don't know how long I gazed, but my glasses did turn all hazy. There was a pat on my shoulder and the whale of a pantry guy was back. He had a cup of tea on a tray he held and I took it gratefully.

"Are you a student?"

The loud yet expected voice of the pantry official overshot the chugging of the train. He was still smiling though. I nodded in reply, it made life easier, nodding, amidst the pleasant noise. "My son was a student once", he said, holding the support as his tummy chugged along with the train.

"Oh is he done with studying now?"

"No...... he is just done."

At first I did not understand what he was trying to say, but only after his smile disappeared did I realize what he meant. Before I could apologize, he smiled again and with tears in his eyes spoke with great pride;

" My son was in the army. He fought terrorists, much the like the ones who were in Mumbai. I am sure he saved loads of people, but I don't know, I don't know what happened to him. I have been here in this train for 25 yrs now, and done nothing useful, except give this nation a son who could save it from turmoil. You are probably wondering how I speak English so well, well, that too was thanks to my son."

His smile was wider than ever, I felt like crying but his genuine love for his dead son had made my senses go numb. I didn't gaze at the darkness anymore, I started now gazing at the wide man with an even wider smile speaking proudly about his dead son.

After an awkward but pleasant conversation with the man, I placed my empty tea cup back on his tray with currency. He smiled again and bobbed his way to the next compartment. Before he was out of sight he turned back and said;

"Sorry for the disturbance, but I thought I should tell you that. Younger generation holds the key. This nation depends on youth. Good bye. Muniguda is next station. All the best for your audit."

All I could do is smile. There was a bunch of politicians sitting in the berth nearest to the doors. As I heard them laughing, drinking and smoking oblivious to the rules and regulations of train journeys, my body seethed with anger. There they sat, not concerned with the law they need to be enforcing on other people. Occasionally, one goon would go into orchestra mode and his many chamchas went into bouts of "Wah"s.

I tried not paying attention to them, as my station drew nearer. My phone beeped a message. It was my colleague at Lanjigarh. Muniguda station was not a safe option as naxalites had started off a violent strike at that province. Again I was reminded about the chubby caterer and his son. had he told me the truth? He seemed to be. His voice resounded with pride and passion. And there I was, finding solace by just staring into darkness as I had nothing better to do. Who would give him solace? Who will give meaning to his life now?

The answer then came to me.

He had already found his meaning.

His life now was now about giving meaning to all young blood boarding this train.

Ambodala was to be my stop said the subsequent message. The politicians were becoming unbearable. They were passing comments on women young enough to be their daughters. As I walked past the the corridor to give them a reproachful look, the whale of a waiter returned and gave that curved smile that calmed my seething young blood.

"Don't get down at Muniguda. Big strike. Naxalites are involved babu. Don't get involved in that. Precaution better than cure! ok andi?"

I smiled back and I guess he got the message. He then saw me staring at the politicians, who were oblivious to our presence.

"They are politicians babu. They will do like that only. You don't bother about them and all. Ambodala only 5 minutes away from Muniguda. Get out and be calm." He bobbed back waving his pudgy hand at me.

Ambodala came. And almost immediately went. But the two minutes went like 2 days. I got out with bag and baggage onto the ground. It was bare, it was cold and it was midnight. An old shrivelled station master raised a flag, its colour lost in the darkness, to signal the end of the two minutes. I heard a string of 'Wah"s.

But I couldn't possibly waste time thinking about them. They had no job.

As the whale of the waiter would say "they will be like that only"

I had a job to do. And I had to do it well.

I smiled as I walked back alone to the gate, as the train chugged the other way, there in the distance at the coach door, the pudgy pantry waved me a bye and then gave me a big thumbs up.

And even darkness himself couldn't hide the smile written all over his face.