Without Ticket!
The stench of sweat, nutty-warm aroma of the peanuts, the heavy smell of the oil, re-fried a million times, a horde of people crushing and surviving, the sea of sounds and voices which could qualify for noise and shrieks, muddied her stream of senses.
Vikram had pushed her into that human swarm. She stood there, rooted to the grease-smothered concrete floor, the grey of which was no more a grey. The layer of grease made it harder for the mad herd to run any madder.
“Move. Push through — you have to push and make way.”, Vikram shouted.
“But I can’t.” Her voice drowned in the clamour.
Alia was a short young girl, fitting into the societal definition of beautiful, and her twenties were just around the corner. Distressed jeans, white sweater, white sneakers with ground on them, and a loaded backpack weighing her down, completed her ensemble.
She reared her head, as much as she could — which was not much — to gauge her friends’ whereabouts. But, they were one with the throng. She tried to move; her feet remained unmoving, but her struggling upper limbs eluded the brain to see otherwise.
“Madam, your friends are already in. My job here is done. I will not return a penny if you miss the train now.”, Vikram yelled from the same distance.
She squirmed at the same spot, while the horn blew, and she heard the familiar clickety-clack, only this time the train moved instead of the platform. The serpent was painted crimson, as if it had swallowed all those people who peeped out of the windows barricaded with the rusted iron-rods, destined to never meet each other.
Shiv grabbed her by the hand, and pulled. He was making way for her to follow. She scuffled. They onboarded. The chug-chug rhymed with her heartbeat.
“Where are our seats? And where are the others?”, she cried to get her voice through to Shiv over the ever rising commotion.
“There are none. Vikram conned us. The others are on the train, somewhere.”
“What? Eight hours Shiv; can’t hold still; momentum; the train; the smell; it’s unbearably hot; people are pushing; water — I need water…”
Her head swam and sunk; sweat beads glimmered on her forehead; and she blacked-out. But at least, she got a seat. A cup of water helped. But empathy is a rare commodity and apparently, reserved for fainters. She lost her seat to its rightful master the moment she felt better — to the critical lens of onlookers.
“There?”, Alia exclaimed, when a fat lady with a scarf housing multitude of colors, suggested that she climb up a berth and settle in with seven others — she was the eighth.
“But I can’t fit; there is no place.” Shiv and Alia exchanged a quick glance and she knew; she had to adjust.
“There is plenty. For two at the least.”, the fat lady smirked and her lost canine opened a window in the yellow-stained set of her teeth.
“Come up dear.”, a rather bony woman extended her hand.
The berth demonstrated mixed emotions. But no one exuded their feelings.
She doggedly climbed up the ladder to squeeze in the much squeezed pack. The heavy metal chain pressed into her side — but it also anchored her berth. She didn’t complain. Tears welled in her eyes, but never left their abode. The stench was unbearable, but she didn’t cover her mouth, or nose. The fear of being an outcast was enormous.
“Peanuts, anyone?”
A young man laced with sweat and the warm nutty peanut smell marched into her compartment. He aroused no interest with his indifferent sell pitch. Thus, he marched on.
Another hawker — this time, a child, but emanating a similar smell; his hair greasy, but trimmed, and neatly parted sideways — announced, “Orange Candies, anyone?”.
His gaze expectant, voice resounding, he shouted again, “Sweet and sour Orange Candies! Anyone?”
A little boy tugged on her mother’s dupatta. His eyes pleaded. He said nothing. The mother was a young woman — carrying experience far outweighing her years. She said nothing; only squeezed his arm with her weather-beaten hands; he understood, and so did the candy lad. He glanced around the compartment one last time, and trudged on.
Alia moistened her parched lips, and swallowed the lump with the last of her filtered water.
“I could have bought him the candies.”, she thought remorsefully.
She touched her side; it was sore, almost numb. She sat unstirred. Her head swam and sank, until a fog descended. Heavy and thicker it got, weighing her down — she was drowning, but it was a tranquil fall; like a balmy summer; delightful even. She was sinking, and she wanted to sink.
“Will you climb down? Our station is the next”, the bony lady jolted her back into the train.
The train had slowed down. The little boy and his mother were leaving the compartment; Alia caught a glimpse of the patched tote swinging, and saying goodbye. She unfolded her legs — they were stiff; released her sore side from the metal anchor, and forced out the pent-up air from her mouth, just when another nudge visited.
She alighted, and felt the moving ground. Holding onto the side post, she breathed, and stretched while comforting her sore side with the other hand.
“My compartment is almost vacant. We can all sit together now — all that is left is a thirty minute journey, anyway.”, Shiv, carrying the ubiquitous odor, hurried to inform her.
Alia took her backpack, her almost empty water bottle, held Shiv’s hand, and plodded along.
From her new window seat, she could see the foofaraw on the station; the hawkers running with samosa-and-chai towards the train.
Hoot!!!!
The train started; a hawker tried to keep up; he could not; the hawker lost his money; she watched the platform and the dismayed hawker recede. She closed her eyes and the wind swept her face.
“There you are. How was the trip? Why didn’t you answer my calls? Are you ok? What happened?”, the excitement in her father’s voice dwindled, as she walked closer to where he stood waiting.
She looked at her mother, flung her arms around her father. The warmth lent a hand to her tears — they broke free.