I used to think I was born in a train…. Some of the earliest memories that I have are that of the dusty sleeper compartments of the Howrah Chennai mail winding through the hot sun, like a long snake, its large diesel engine of a head chugging in a loud noise, screaming in between and spitting out dense clouds of smoke. I used to look out the window, with eyes open with wonder at the long bridges, heaps and heaps of black Cuddapah stones piled up, large mountains, hillocks , grass lands and dry arid landscapes rushing past backwards as if they don’t want to come along with me..
“ Why are they running back when we are going in opposite direction” , I used to pester my dad, who sat silently near my mother who lay on the lower birth. She is not well, suffering from chronic asthma and breathing problems. In fact we we had started from Calcutta in haste. I vaguely remember my father bringing my mother from the Barasat District Hospital with strict advice from the doctor that we can’t stay in Calcutta any more. The city, beautiful as it is with all its proud traditions, culture and architecture, was equally polluted as well even in 1981. My mother could never withstand that environment and used to fall ill every now and then. The final straw came on that day when the doctor sternly told my father “ Mr.Purushotham.. You can’t have her in Calcutta any more”..
I remember when Mom was brought home to our little 2 bed room on the first floor of the housing board apartment in 24 Parganas..
They brought her in a stretcher and carried her up.
“See Daddy.. Mom is coming home like a queen.. Riding a palanquin.. “
Someone shushed me… “Keep quiet.. She is not well..”
Daddy did not say anything ..He just went inside and started packing..
We were leaving the city of joy behind…
“ Why are they running past Daddy.. ? Why are they not coming with us to Mom’s house ? “ I continued to pester him.
He did not say anything.. Just a tired smile.. The two nuns in the opposite seat smiled at me.. The older one took me on her lap..
“ They are not running past, my boy.. You are running ahead of them… See you are winning the race.. You are gonna be first..”
I thought I felt happy at that moment.. Can’t remember..
We had met them in the railway station… It was going to be a long haul for Dad to take Mom home on a 4 day journey in a train. They were part of a Christian charity mission and employed as nurses in Calcutta. Mom had to take regular injections on time, administered drips when needed and all that was going to be difficult in the lower berth of the railway coach…
If we had not met them..
I don’t remember their names.. I don’t think Daddy does too.. But angels are always like that.. They come , do their part and go.. No one remembers them..
The train was running at its full speed… It would make a big rumbling noise when it climbed on to long bridges on big rivers.. I would clutch the window rails and look outside at the passing landscape..
Obviously, I was winning the race.. Running towards where I would spend the rest of my life, leaving behind a city whose memories would slowly fade in to darkness.. Just a bit of the sweet taste of the Sandesh lingering behind. Dad would buy one small piece for me every day from the sweet shop near my school. Just that and nothing else.. Running, racing, towards a new life… New people.. New hopes.. Life , would change forever…
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