Showing posts with label trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trip. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

My Life as a "wanderlust" ... The Miracle on the Train...

Again back with another story from the days of my travelling... not that it has stopped... the travelling that is...not at all...

This one dates back to my college days... people who have passed those days can remember them with fondness and a peculiar smile on their faces... life in the college gives you wings, literally, one has a host of new ideas, new imaginations, concepts never thought of, could be entertained and debated... and the entire world seems to be within one's grasp...

Anyways, those were heady days for me... I had started scorning my parents ideas, ideas, which I may point out, I had grown up with, ideas that seem to me, too constricting, conservative and irrational... I was charting out my dream, and my aspirations seem way too broad minded and liberal than my middle class parents could handle. I can still remember that summer when I went home, I had a huge debate with my dad, on the existence of god... slowly, but surely, I was turning into an atheist... and my parents feared that with my believe in a "godless" world, my moorings with my traditions and customs would also vanish...

I had been raised a Hindu, and as long as I could remember, my mum, used to teach me the names of the thousands of gods and goddesses that constituted the Hindu pantheon, their stories, how the "asuras" (demons) and the gods fought, and countless other mythologies... At school though, I was growing up following Christianity because anyone who wanted a good "English medium education" in India, in those days had to go to a convent school, and one of the essential requirements of the students were that they pray and follow the words of Christ. Hence I knew the Old Testament and the New Testament, the Ten Commandments and numerous stories about Christ and his followers... whenever I prayed, I prayed to the Trinity of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit in school and at home I was required to pray to another completely different set of gods... this was my "religious education" while growing up...

So this "religious paradox" that I was growing up with, led me to believe that there couldn't be a god who existed, and even if he did, understanding him or her wouldn't be so confusing and complicated. So that summer, I refused to pray, to take part in any religious ceremonies that required my participation and worse, returned all the small, bright pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses that my parents had given me, while going away to college, including a beautiful silver cross... I told them straightaway, that if there was a god, and he/she didn't like the ideas that I was entertaining, he/she could tell me themselves... my parents were stunned and deeply hurt... I felt bad, yes I did, because, whether you believe or not, religion and religious beliefs are often time very sensitive issues... but I was too stubborn in my beliefs, too vain to even entertain the thought that I could be wrong...

And yes, I was going to be proved wrong soon enough...

While returning to Mumbai (a very big metropolitan in India, where I attended College) that summer, I was travelling in the Mumbai-Howrah Mail, an express train that the Indian Government claimed could outrun the wind... well, that still remains a vain propaganda on the part of the Indian government and anyone who has traveled on that dratted train would tell you that speed is not one of its forte...

In the days, when I was in College, there hadn't been an advent of cheap air travel, as there is now in India... trains were the most common form of long distance transportation, and as students, who lived in the college hostel, we would get Travel Compensation, another program on the part of the Indian government to lure girls in far-flung areas to study... we would get a fifty percent discount on our train tickets both to and from home, thus the need never arose that we would spend money on air travel...

The Mumbai-Howrah Mail, completed the journey from Kolkata to Mumbai in two nights and three days... a journey which is now covered by low cost air companies in a mere two and half hours... thus the train was not merely a method of transportation, for many, it was a way of life... you met many different types of people, from different regions of India, many languages were spoken, and different ideas exchanged... I have even known of a young boy and girl from neighboring states who met on the train, fell in love in the course of those "three days and two nights" and eventually got married to each other...!!

So anyhow, here I was, after bidding tearful farewells to my parents (although I am not sure, I cried so much that summer, but of course my mum did), she still does, wherever she comes to leave me at the airport... there were five passengers travelling with me and being extremely talkative and congenial by nature, I soon knew their respective destinations. That night after securing our luggage under our respective berths, all my co-passengers, including me went off to sleep...

It was 3 am when I suddenly woke up. The train was standing in a rather forlorn station called Gaya (Budh Gaya, some call it, it was the place, where Gautam Buddha, the founder of Buddhism, found his Enlightenment), nowadays, though it is notorious for petty theft. The rule of the book, whenever you wake up in the middle of the night during your train journey in India is to

1. Check your luggage
2. Check your footwear is not missing

Those two done and being satisfied by the result, I went to lie down again, anxious to get my sleep back.

It was then, that I noticed.

The window in front of my seat was open, just a few inches and the hand bag that I was carrying, which I had most conveniently positioned just near the window, and which held some of the most important and basic things, a person needs on the journey, sliced wide open, as if someone had taken special time and care to slice through the bag with an extremely sharp knife.

I was stunned... a cold feeling crept up from somewhere in my stomach to my heart and finally to my hands...a clammy sweat formed on my forehead, and I reached to check the lost contents of my bag... my keys to the luggage were gone, my money was gone, along with my pretty pink purse, my College Identity card was gone and gone were my train tickets....the one proof that I was a valid passenger in this train.

I have no memory of how the rest of the night passed except that my co-passengers soon woke up and the Ticket Checker was called and a hundred rebukes and consolations followed. The next two days, I was on a virtual exhibition, people from different ends of the train, kept coming to visit me, my story of how I was robbed had indeed traveled throughout the train... sometimes, they came with consolation, sometimes with inquiries and sometimes with rebukes...whatever it was, they always felt, I had been hugely irresponsible and that these days parents and teachers weren't teaching the stuff that they really needed to teach to kids.

Unlike these days, when all of us are connected through the miracle called cellular phones, we did not have those back then, and once you were on a train, you could only get in touch with your loved ones when you reached your destination.

One of my co-passengers had the sense enough to contact the Railway Police and file an FIR (First Information Report)... any theft that had taken place on the train, were to be reported to the Indian Railway Police, these guys had Police Stations stationed in all the train stations and you could contact them on the platform itself. It wasn't much help though... the young Police Constable, noted down with sincerity all that I had to tell, and then rebuked me on my carelessness, taking the time point out that "Gaya" was an extremely unsafe station and his final conclusion was that my parents shouldn't have left me to travel alone... which in a word, did absolutely nothing to help my situation.

Soon it was the end of our journey, with hours left for the train to reach Mumbai, I was in a bad state... I had  lost my Identity card, I had no money to get a cab at the station and to get to my hostel... I had some money in my suitcase, which was locked and the keys had already been stolen... it was a Sunday, and I would not find any locksmith in Mumbai station who would help me in my peril... I was finding no way out... every solution I thought of, needed money, which was safely lying at the bottom of the now "locked" suitcase.

Sensing my discomfiture, some of my co-passengers tried to lend me money, so that I can at least get to my hostel safely, but where would I again meet them to give the money back... travelers in the train met only once and as one steps off at one's destination, they become a mere memory like the journey, one is undertaking.

I desperately wanted my suitcase opened, if someone, by any chance could open my suitcase, I would be able to retrieve the money needed, get a taxi back to my hostel, from where I could call up my parents and tell them the whole sorry tale... but all these would be achieved if someone could break the Lock on my suitcase and get the money out... I was desperate, and it is in desperation, always that man turns to pray... no matter, how much I had belittled god that summer, I was desperate for his help now, I prayed feverishly, that somehow, someway, something would happen which could end this sorry situation of mine...

Now we were only three stations away from Mumbai, a mere hour... I was beyond fear and prayers had long stopped, I had reached a state of "thoughtlessness", if anything such exists, all thoughts, rational and irrational were obliterated from my mind and I stared blankly out of the windows at the passing trees, shrubs and the scenery.

Suddenly, a young man came into our compartment.

"Yesterday, I heard, that a robbery had taken place here, who was robbed"?  He asked settling himself down at the end of my seat, a little distance away from me...

"Not a robbery, you could call it a theft", answered the old man seated in front of me.

I looked at him bitterly, for he had not spoken a single word of consolation and had the gall to rebuke me continuously for the past two days, as if just being senior in age gave him some form of dominance over me.

" It could have easily been avoided, had she (pointing a bonny index finger towards me) been a little more careful..."

"How so?", my new enquirer asked

" Only, she should have kept that bag of her's away from the train windows... nowadays, children seem to have little common sense left in them... studying in such big-big colleges and not an inch of common sense"...

 Again I looked bitterly at him and scowled... this had been his continuous rejoinder, how I did not posses "a single common sense".

" So what are going to do, when you get to Mumbai ? "  the young man asked me now...

I turned to him, and answered, "I have no clue"... and I really did not... I could hear the old man in front me give a long sigh.

" Can you suggest any idea ?"

He looked at me a bit longer and said he could give me some money to get a taxi till my Hostel. I told him plainly, that it was not a solution and there had been others who had pointed out the same.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"If only I could get someone to open this suitcase for me, I could take out the money myself "", I said...

The old man "tch-tched" under his tongue...

"Why don't you take the money, now, who can open a suitcase in a train ? " came the steady rejoinder.

" I think I can help you out with that ", the young man replied

"You can ? " I asked, almost willing to believe him... "Can you open the suitcase for me ?"

"Yes, why not, I can open it with a safety pin..."

"A safety pin, where can you get that in a train", the old man snorted. Probably, he was again thinking of rebuking the fellow.

" Oh I have it, right in my pocket"... and he took it out.

I stared at him incredulously, I had never before seen any man carry safety pins in his pockets.

Whatever...

We heaved up the suitcase, and for some minutes, he fiddled with the lock... after some tense minutes, there was a little "click" and lo and behold, the lock was unlocked and the suitcase lay open in front of me...

" Here's the lock, I don't think you'll be again able to use it"... he said as he handed me the now broken lock...

I looked at him and at that moment, I could have hugged him tight... the old man in front of me, was profusely thanking him, and I, in my relief, seemed wordless...

I just continued to stare at him...

" All the best for the journey ahead ", he smiled and and left... it was only for an instant, that I noticed piercing blue eyes in his face... then he was gone.

I fervently opened my suitcase and took out the money and flopped back on my seat...

Then it occurred to me, I hadn't even thanked him...

" You could at least have thanked him... he deserved that much... today's girls...!!!"  The old man seem now really annoyed with me...

"Yes I should have... I think I'll find him in the next compartment"...

I left my suitcase there, in the care of the old man, and snaked through the rows of the compartment, nowhere was my "savior" seated... I even got down at the next station, but he was to be seen nowhere...

Mumbai came and I alighted, took the taxi back to my hostel, and everything turned out normal...

But from that day onward, I started believing in God, and also in miracles...





Tuesday, March 5, 2013

My life as a "wanderlust" ... The Story of Sarada

As in my previous post, I had promised, that I would write about some of the wonderful people and places that I have visited during my travels, this post is my first endevour to fulfill that promise.

I wanted this story to be the first, because it's a story of an incredible woman. This incident took place in the year 1998 in the month of April. I mention this story specifically, because there are so many women, and in so many different circumstances, and each have their own brave tales to tell... this is such a story, the story of Sarada, an ordinary woman, but incredible because of the circumstances she's in.

This story takes place in a small town in of Londa, more specifically, the Londa Railway Station... Londa is situated in the Belgaum district of Karnataka, India. It's a really beautiful town, with breathtaking views of the Sahyadris rising up. There are generally two types of people who come to the Londa station. The first are the trekkers who are interested in going up the Sahyadris, and the second group generally, change trains here for the further journey upto Goa. My family and I fell into the second group.

Back in the 1990's, Konkan railways, which connects Mumbai and Margao in Goa, did not have many trains in operation and as my father was being transferred from Jabalpur in Madhya Pradesh, taking the right connecting train was even more difficult... so we undertook a long journey, from Madhya Pradesh, to Mahrashtra to Karnataka and finally to Goa. Londa fell in our Karnataka section of the trip.

When the train stopped in Londa, very few people alighted. It was afternoon and the month of April. The summer sun was already making it's presence felt and there were very few porters available.

We were approached by one, who took a hard look at the number of cases we were carrying and asked us our destination. When we told him that we were taking a train from this station itself, and we merely needed to change the platform, he pointed out that there was a bridge to be crossed and that with the amount of luggage we had, he would charge at least 70 bucks.

Now Indians, and especially Bengalis, have an inherent habit of bargaining... no matter the money was being paid by the Indian Government, my parents and I promptly indulged in a bargain. The fellow, probably was feeling too sleepy... contrary to agreeing or disagreeing, as is the norm of a successful  bargaining, he simply left.

So here was, a family of four, stranded on a platform, with the summer sun beating down upon us, and in a few minutes it looked as if the entire station has gone on a siesta, except for us. There was not a single person milling around, not even stray dogs were found, the few stalls of books and paraphernalia had already closed with "lunch time" hanging on their downed shutters. The last departing porter gave us a reassuring advice, wait till the next train arrives and someone would be there to help us... well the next train that would arrive was the one we were supposed to take, so his advice was completely wasted on us... but we chose not to point it out to him.

As we were staring up at the stairs to the bridge, gathering up our luggage and planning on a strategy as to who would carry what, we met her... she was a frail looking woman, in a red sari, no footwear and a large red "bindi" on her forehead... she came up to us, and signaled with her hands, where we were headed.

 Our first impression was that she was a beggar, and thus consequently, we chose to ignore her. As my father picked up the first suitcase and started heading, she ran to my father, and started snatching it from his hand... we jumped up, thinking she was a mad woman, and my mother and I started screaming for help... then she started pleading to us, again with the signs to stop screaming... she painfully explained that she was a porter.

When we understood, what she was trying to convey, we were extremely taken aback, a woman porter, that too one who could not speak or hear... we didn't know whether to be impressed or suspicious...

We slowly started loading up the suitcases onto her head... when the limit of two cases was reached, my mother asked my father to take the other two, since she was so frail, we didn't really trust her to carry everything.... she again signaled, she was very able to carry the extra two suitcases, and they were also promptly loaded up...with four cases piled up on her head, and two duffel bags on her right arm, she slowly started to mount the stairs. I and my brother kept matching her pace, because we were sure she would topple over. She again signaled to me regarding which platform to go to, and I signaled back. When we reached our destination, she slowly unloaded the suitcases and the bags and waited. We weren't sure what we were supposed to do, and my father took out a 50 rupee note... she again signaled that she didn't want the money now, but when she would load the luggage on the train. We were surprised and really touched.

As then happens with all Indian families, we squatted on top of our luggage and waited for our train to come. She squatted on the floor nearby.

My mother, this is one trait I share with her... whatever the circumstances, we need to talk. My mother promptly started a conversation with her. Now it was the most strangest conversation, I have ever witnessed. No a single word was spoken between the two speakers, the entire conversation was through actions, yet the witnesses present could clearly understand what was being spoken.

What transpired from the conversation was as follows.

Her name was Sarada, she pointed at a Hindi tatoo on her arm to let us know of this fact, she was married, her husband was also a porter, infact the same one who had told us that there would be someone to help us... she had three children, and she helped her husband out in the business of pottering.

She looked after the noon shift, when there wasn't many trains and passengers, while her husband took a short nap. He would be back, she said in about an hour, and she would go to pick up her kids from school. She had three children, two daughters and one son and yes they all went to school. Her husband and her children could all speak and hear, only she couldn't. Her husband, she pointed out did not drink or beat her, as is the norm in most poor Indian families. When my mother pointed out that she too could take rest, instead of laboring in the hot syn, carrying such huge luggage... she explained to her, that she really believed in earning herself, and being independent and  in fact, it was her earnings, which made it possible for her children to attend schooling. She also pointed out that because both her husband and she earned, it has been possible for them to make a "pucca" house for themselves.This, she pointed out smiling, was an achievement,  as they were the only porters here in Londa to have one. We were stunned listening to her story.

In an era, (this was 1998, remember?) where women's lib was only a lip service, here was a woman, disable so as to speak of, but far more advanced and far more capable than, many quite able ones. She was poor, she couldn't even hear or speak, and yet here she was, doing a job, that in India, is quite clearly a man's domain. We could not hide our appreciation and respect for her.

Shortly our train came, and she again loaded each and every case, with care in our designated compartment and my father was so happy that he paid a hundred bucks to Sarada. Soon as the train left the station, we could see Sarada's red sari fluttering up in the wind as she slowly mounted up the stairs.

Reflection muses...

Language is the basis for recapturing experience...

- Cyhthia Selfae