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As you glide through life, you change. As you soar up high, you look ahead and you dream. You dream to touch the clouds above. And you flap your wings hard, and harder to reach that place. You thrive with all your might to touch that fluffy little piece of cloud. But one little moment when you look down to feel the pride in your heart to have soared so high, you see the ground. You see the little houses, where men live. You see the green and the line of blue cutting through it. You see the stream, but fail to hear the gurgle which was so clear when you were sitting on a rock by it. And then you realize, maybe it was not the clouds that you sought for. Maybe, you had it all wrong. And you longed to get back there, sit on that rock and close your eyes and listen to the water gurgle by your side, to God knows where. And you feel, life might be about achieving. It might be about dying proud. But it also means to be happy, to be free, to be lazy, and to die peaceful. And when you look deep into your heart, you might find a feeling whispering to you, that you don't want to die proud and meaningful. You just want to die smiling and peaceful.

So, you decide, that you touch that piece of cloud, and turn back as fast as you can, to return back to that place where you heart belonged. So, you try harder, you tire our wings more, you flap them faster. As thousands of thoughts zoom through your head, you miss that place on the earth, you miss the green and the stream, and the noises. And then you ask yourself, "What the hell am I doing? I need to get back there." Yeah, you realize that you are a lot impatient. So, you turn back and with a smile on your face, you fly back to the place that sits down there.

Your dreams change.

But then one day, you wish you could have flown a little more. And maybe you could have let your feet rest on the clouds. And maybe you would have liked that. But now you will never know. Time doesn't come back to you. And it doesn't leave you enough time to retrace those paths.

So, you sit by the favorite stream of yours, listen to all the noises around it. You feel peaceful. You feel happy. Life has been good to you. But you die with that one dream unfulfilled. Do you regret? No, you don't. It was a choice you made out of all the dreams you had. And the unfulfilled dream, you can always come back for that. Ask Him, to send you back, so that you can fly away on your dreams over again.

Happy Diwali

A Diwali night.
By the open window,
I stand.
On the flyover
Cars sped... Noisy!


My pair of eyes
Graze the sky.
Diwali crackers
Glitters in the dark.
Beautiful.
And my lips part
into a smile.
The pair of eyes
Watched...
for hours.

On the table
Lay my phone.
Silent...
Drowned into the noise
Of passing cars
And firecrackers.

From the Diary of a daily Passenger : The Abrupt End

After this long break.. I thought of writing the next chapter of the series... but I realised that I have lost a big part of the things that I had in mind. And I am at loss of words right now... So, here comes the end of it... I feel sorry to end it this way...

Maybe someday I would add up another chapter to it... But for the time being.. this is it.

The walk.

I walk the streets...
To escape
the voices in my head.
I walk miles,
to rest
my tired feet.
I walk alone...
To put aside
untamed loneliness.

As I walk through exhaust fumes,
As thoughts rain on me,
A lump chokes me up.
The eye brims.

I walk until its dark.
And then turn back.
I know I need to get back...
Under a roof.

That night,
When I go to bed, I make a wish.
A wish...
That I didn't have to return.
That i could lie down,
and watch the stars...
for just a night.

For one night,
if I could get lost,
Without you asking me "Where?"




I know poems are not supposed to be on the blog, but a few now n then seems just fine. *wink*

From the Diary of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 12

She answered, “Balia. At my in-laws.”
“You traveling alone?”
“No, No. My husband is sleeping up there.” And she bent down a little and then twisted herself to face upwards and pointed at the upper berth.
Anindita had noticed the man snoring there. She said, “Oh.”
It was quiet for sometime. Then the woman said again, “He is my husband.”
Anindita smiled and nodded. The woman continued, “I have one son. Only eight years old. I was married twenty-two years ago. But I was not having children. We went to the doctors. They could not do anything. They said nothing was wrong with me. They wanted to examine my husband. So, we went to a Babaji. He is a great man. He still lives in Rishikesh. We go there every year. He did a Puja and then after years of regular fast and Puja I conceived. Everyone at home was relieved. My husband had become so upset with me.”
There was nothing for Anindita to say. She smiled. And during the complete journey, the woman took the job of talking and left the smiling part to Anindita.
She kept quiet for sometime and continued again, “My son’s name is Rahul. My husband named him, after Shahrukh’s name is Kuchh Kuchh Hota hai. You have seen the movie, haven’t you?”
Anindita nodded. She continued again, “It is a good movie. I wanted to name him Mahesh. He was actually born on Shivratri. But Rahul is good. It is a better name. Are you married?”
That was a shocker. Anindita smiled and said, “No, I am not.”
“You work?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It is very important that girls should work. We are illiterate. We can’t even name our children properly. Mahesh is such an old fashioned name. Is it not?” And she laughed.
Anindita said, “No why would it be old fashioned? It is good.”
“No, it is not. Everybody laughed when I said that name.”
Anindita kept quiet. Sometime later, the woman started again, “He is in class four now. He is very naughty. He never listens to me. He doesn’t treat me like his mother. Not at all afraid of me. Whenever I try to scold him, he would always beat me and run away. He is so restless. Never comes and sits with me. He sits with his dad though. Actually his dad brings him gifts and chocolates. I remain busy with my kitchen work all day. When I get some time in the afternoon, he sleeps with his grandmother. At night also he sleeps with his grandmother. In the morning he goes to school with his dad. I rarely get him close to me. He is so restless. How could I?”
A pause again.
“I work all day. Early morning, Rahul goes to school. Then two of my sisters-in-law go to college. Then my husband goes to work. I prepare breakfast and Tiffin for all of them. Then my Mother-in-law needs a massage. Then I have to get things ready for her bath. Then I go for cooking. After everybody eats, I clean up, take a bath and then finally get time to eat for myself. Its usually 4 o’clock when I eat. What time do you eat at home?”
Okay! That was a question. Anindita replied with a smile, “Usually 2 o’clock.”
”Hmm.”
She kept quiet for a moment, and then started off again. “Do you know to cook?”
“Yes. I am not a great cook. But I can manage well.”
“Arey, you all study. You can cook. That is all. My sisters-in-law do not cook at all. They always go to college and come home with friends. I know all of them. Actually I prepare the snacks for them. I meet them. So, I know them. They are all good girls. The only problem is they cannot cook. You cannot tell your husbands that you cannot cook. Can you?”
Anindita agreed.

A longer pause.
“Rahul is very intelligent. My husband says, he would one day become a doctor. His father brings him so many toys. The toys do not last even a day. He breaks them off. I tell my husband to scold him sometimes, but my husband says that a child breaking toys is a good sign. It means your child is very intelligent. And my husband says that with all the money he earns, why I should worry about my boy breaking toys. So, I have stopped worrying. But you know what, this will spoil his habits. So, I worry sometimes. But most of the time I do not worry. After all, my husband knows better than me. When he is saying everything would be alright, I am sure about that. I am uneducated. How would I know anything. So, I always……..”

She was stopped by her snoring husband, “Bahot bol rahi hai tu. Thoda kam bola kar. Shuru ho jati hai bas. (You are talking too much. Talk a little less. Once you start, you never stop)”

The woman shut up completely. For a long time, she did not utter a word. Then she moved closer to Anindita and said softly, “I talk too much. But I don’t talk this much when I am at home. At home, everybody is so busy. Nobody has time to talk. I, myself am so busy all day. My husband is a very strict man. He tries to make me presentable. But I am illiterate, so I don’t know his ways. So, I never go out in front his friends. He has very good friends. They come home. I never talked to them. Both men and women. But those women are not like me. They are educated and smart. Like you. He has enough trouble with me. Poor man. So I stay out his way. I try not to trouble him much. I don’t mingle with people much… neighbors I mean. What would they think of my husband if they find out that he has an uneducated wife? So I stay all by myself and pretend to be very busy. So, I don’t have many friends.”
And she continued.


That evening, as the auto-rickshaw sped through the darkness, from the station towards her home, Anindita thought about the women. The unnamed women she saw that day. The two unnamed women, she would most probably never see again. The woman who spoke irritatingly until you would feel like shouting at her, asking her to shut up. But surprisingly, Anindita did not shout at her. Surprisingly, though irritating, there was somewhere a vast loneliness build up inside a heart that could have been wonderfully sweet. Loneliness, from where Anindita knew, she would never come out. She would never know what it meant to be special, or be loved and respected. She felt that flow of words trapped inside a woman, who was forbidden to bring up her own child her own way, to love him or lull him to sleep at night. Anindita thought of all those unspoken feelings that lay behind each word the woman had said to her, which on a first impression would have been sounded like empty and useless chatter.

That night, after dinner when Anindita got into bed, she opened her diary after years. She read a few pages. The last entry was 6 years and few months ago. Once done reading, she scribbled until sleep closed her eyes, the pen still between her fingers and her head on the scribbled ink soaked up by the lined paper.

From the Diary of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 11

The woman replied, “Dunno ! But I don’t think so. I think it’s just their middle class mentality not to let the wife work.”
“Hmm. I will look for the tickets today and will let you know tomorrow. Fine with you?”
“Yes. You are not listening to me, but I think we must quit this job.”
“Arey, don’t worry about it right now. We will think about it later.

And then Anindita’s hearing system unable to filter loud noise, the words rang into her ears, “Your attention please, Train number 3105, Sealdah to Balia, Sealdah Balia Express is arriving shortly on platform number 3.”
It kept repeating in Bengali, Hindi and English.

The pair got up and walked away. Anindita got up slowly. She cursed the train for being on time, and then cursed the man who announced, then cursed the man who prepared the time table and then the driver and during the curing process walked down to the edge of the platform. She watched the pair walk away engrossed into their exclusive world.

The train arrived. As she got into the compartment, she lost sight of the pair, unaware of the fact that she had lost sight of them forever. That was the last time she ever saw them again.

Anindita walked into the compartment found a woman sitting all by herself on a big whole seat. She sat down at one corner. She had lots to think about that evening. She had her dose of humanity and did not need Balia express to provide her with anymore. She sat there quietly looking out of the window, thinking. As she sat there, she noticed the woman turned to look at her every now and then. She was a middle aged woman, wore a pink saree with green leafy border. She had her hair updone into a bun, very untidily. She must have been beautiful years back. She had big eyes, but yellowed. Her earlobes had a big hole resulted due to heavy ear rings. Every time the woman looked at her, she saw a curiosity and wondered if she was too shy to be able to initiate a conversation. Anindita smiled at her. Her lips parted into a smile displaying small, shapely, beautiful but yellow teeth. She looked good when smiling. Anindita asked, “Where are you going?”

From the Diary of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 10

Anindita arrived at the station early. Her seat was occupied. A big family was traveling. Lots of suitcases and bags lay about, children kept running around, mothers at their heels calling them back. She walked round to the next seat. It was empty. She sat down at one side of it and listened to the family chattering about hundreds of things. What she deciphered was that they were heading for a marriage in Patna and from there they would be going to Shimla for a vacation. It was fun listening to the chattering.

One of them shouted, “Neha, did u pack the eggs?”

A young married woman (must be Neha) replied, “Oh Shit ! I kept it on the table, but forgot to put it in. Now?”

The one who had initiated, replied, “I knew you would do it. You always miss on something every time.”

Neha smiled sweetly full of guilt and said, “I am so sorry Gauri didi. What will happen now?”

Gauri shouted at the top of her voice, “Did u hear Ma? Neha left the eggs at home.”

People around turned to look.

An old woman a little father away replied back louder than Gauri, “Again? What will happen now? How many eggs were there?”

Gauri said, still maintaining the volume “Twelve! All Boiled! I don’t think it would last two weeks.”

Anindita smiled. Forget about two weeks. Wouldn’t last two days. People around smiled.

The old woman looked worried. “Now what?”

Gauri said, volume still maintained at maximum, “What ! Nothing ! They will rot and when we come back, I wonder how we would step into that smelling house.”

The old woman got a bit irritated, and muttered, loud enough to be heard by every soul who were around, “Three daughter-in-laws and still you forget to pack the eggs. You are so lucky to have me. If it had been my mother-in-law, you would have been dead by now. Twelve eggs ! It is so costly.” Then she raised her volume to maximum again and asked, “ Haan Neha?? What will you feed Ketan now? That gentleman son of yours doesn’t take in a grain of rice without non-veg.”

Neha smiled guiltily and replied, “Don’t worry Ma, I will arrange something for him.”

Neha called, “Ketan come here.”

A little boy of about three years was squatting at the edge of the platform. He the upper half of his torso, still in the same position and looked at Neha. “Ma, come here. See here is a snake. It is dead.”

“No, you come here. Come fast.”

Ketan did not budge. Neha got up, walked upto him and pulled him to the bench where Anindita was sitting and sat down.

Quietly she said, “Ketan, I forgot to pack the eggs. You wouldn’t make a fuss while eating tonight, right?”

Ketan made a face. Neha explained, “If you make such a face, grandmother will get angry with me. She loves you so much, she will scold me that I did not bring the eggs for you. And if she becomes very angry, she might leave me in some unknown station and then what will happen to me?”

Ketan thought for a moment and then smiled, “No, she won’t do that.”

Neha said, “What if she does?”

Ketan replied, “She won’t. I know. But okay, if you are afraid, I will eat without the eggs. But get me some fish tomorrow. Now come and see the snake.”

Neha and Ketan got up. Neha glanced at Anindita as Ketan tugged at her arm. Anindita and Neha smiled at each other.

And with that, the egg-fuss was over. The old woman kept muttering. Gauri and Neha and others talked and Anindita was the silent unnoticed audience.

The woman (who traveled on board Balia Express with Anindita, the one Anindita did not like much) and her husband arrived and walked to the seat where Anindita sat. That was their usual seat. They sat down. Anindita saw the woman after a long time. More than a week. The husband was traveling alone all those days.

The man asked extra softly making it almost a whisper, “Now tell me where you were these days? Something wrong at home?”

Anindita heard it though she wasn’t meant to hear it. Anindita realized she was wrong all these days. He wasn’t the husband. He must be just a colleague.

The woman said, “They want me to quit working. I told you about this earlier. Did I not? How long do we have to wait?”

“It is getting tougher for you. Isn’t it? Let me check when I can get tickets. Anybody suspicious at home?”

Right that moment, Anindita was. She was a normal human being. Normal people are allowed to be suspicious about things going on around them. She adjusted her hearing system to filter every other sound except the two beside her.

From the diary of a daily passenger : Chapter 09

The man kept arguing. The only argument he had was that he was a railway employee and he worked hard for the passengers and the passengers must let him travel in comfort and actually, railway employees were allowed to get into sleeper class compartments and sit where ever they wanted to. Nobody was allowed to question them. One passenger demanded his I-card and he produced one. The I-card was handed to Anindita for checking if he was speaking the truth. Out of curiosity, she looked. His name was Giridhari Yadav. He was a "khalasi" or in better words a gatekeeper kind of staff. Anindita hadnt spoken after the passengers had taken over the argument. She was disgusted of the whole affair and of the whole day. Anindita handed it back to the man and produced her own I-card that had been provided to her as a trainee at the IT-department of CLW (Chittaranjan Locomotive Works). She handed it to Giridhari and said, "I work in the computer department of the same corporation you are in and I deal with the Accounts section. You can check. Do you know to read English?"
People went quieter. The man looked at Anindita and muttered something. Anindita looked at the man sternly and said, "It would take me two minutes to find out every minute detail about you. Not only that, I work on the payment cheques that you recieve every month as your salary. You want me to do that?"
The man stared at Anindita and Anindita continued, "Once I am done with all the things I mentioned, let me see how much interested you would be in serving your passengers?"

The man got up and without a single word walked out of the compartment. Aninidita smiled. Her first smile throughout the day. This was the best thing that happened to her since morning. She could surely find out every minute detail in a minute but she was in no position to alter anything regarding his salary cheque. After all, she was just a software developer. It was fun being somebody of such weight that people double your age are afraid of you. Other passengers stood there and a discussion followed for sometime. Slowly the croed dispersed from the door to their respective seats. One of them came up to Anindita and said, "Come and sit. There is space over here."
Anindita thanked and declined. She was loving the wind. The old man was back at his seat. Anindita asked him, "Where are you going?"
He replied, "Balia, beti."
"Dont you have a reservation? It is very far. You will have to sit the whole night?"
"I know, but tickets costs so much. I did not have enough money."
"Hmm. Who stays in Balia?"
"My folks. My relatives. From now on, I will live there itself."
"And in Kolkata?"
"Kolkata nahi, beti, I lived in Asansol. I used to be a Rickshaw-puller. And since the past few years, I gathered up plastics and sold them. It was enough for us. I do not have children. My wife died two months ago. What shall I live for in Bardhman, all alone?"
"Hmm."

Anindita looked outside into the dark and thought, "Funny life."

From the Diary of the Daily Passenger : Chapter 08

That day Anindita was a bit pissed off with lots of things. She wasn't her usual self. She was quieter than usual and wasn't in the mood to be her usual nicer self. So, she preferred to stay aloof and quiet. She did not feel like enjoying her Balia express company. And she knew she would land up in some trouble if she did not keep herself aloof.

As she boarded the train, she walked up to the end of the compartment and stood there by the door. At the ticket examiner's seat sat an old man with a little bundle tied up into a dirty white cloth. She looked at him once. He shivered now and then. It wasn't cold in April and so Anindita thought maybe it was old age. She looked out of the door. She always loved standing at the door. The wind whizzed past, hurting the eyes, forcing them to close. It was fun. She did not lean out but leaned back on the door. On the floor beside her, two men sat, a little less older than the man on the ticket examiner's seat, but nevertheless, old. She did not pay much attention. She continued to look outside and feel the wind on her face. It helped her soothe her uneasiness.

The train sped by on schedule. A middle-aged man arrived into the compartment. Most probably he had boarded at Chittaranjan into some other compartment and walked into this one. He saw the old man on the seat and said to him, "Babaji.. go and sit there." and he pointed at the floor beside the other men. The old man looked at him in meek silence and the man ordered again, "Kya hua Baba? Get up and sit there."
The old man clasped his bundle with his wrinkled hands and staggered to the floor beside the others. Anindita hated the middle-aged man. She glared at him for a moment but he didnt look at her. So, she looked away in disgust. After all what could she do alone? She was a girl and she had always been advised by friends and family to keep shut however tempting it might it was to speak back against wrongs. So, she stared out of the door, with a grumpy face, irritated of all shitty and crude things about life. She stood there thinking of what all things she would have said to that man if at all she did say anything to him. Then she thought, there was no harm in saying a sentence or two. She would not fight. She would just tell him that what he did was wrong and he shouldn't have made that old staggering man to get up off the seat. Then she changed her mind. It would be of no use. He wouldn't listen. So she gave up the idea.

Few more minutes passed. The train moved cutting through the air. Anindita stared outside. It was getting darker. The sky was graying though there still was light, but the earth bore only dark silhouettes. Anindita turned to the middle aged man and said, "Didn't you feel bad making that old man sit there on the floor?"
The man was a bit surprised. He stammered for a moment, unable to say anything. He looked at Anindita and then at the old man and then back at Anindita. Finally he said, "This seat is for Railway employees. It is not for that old man."
Anindita said, "It is for the TTE. It is not for you either. In that case I can ask you to get up and allow me to sit. Should I do that?"
"I am a rail employee. I am entitled to travel a bit more comfortably. I work at Chittaranjan Locomotive works. I work for all the passengers and they should be a little more considerate about letting me travel in some comfort."
Anindita wondered what was she doing. She was actually creating a scene. She had a sudden urge to stop and walk away. But she was into it and she couldn't just leave. She replied back. "You don't work for the people. You work because you are paid. And forget about all that. This man is so old he cannot even stand properly. It never occurred to you that you should have even a little bit of moral sense in you. Three older men and a lady is standing in front of you and look at you, you are sitting there and arguing !"

Anindita knew she was getting irritated. But she knew how to keep her calm. She looked calm and firm but on the inside she felt like slapping the man hard. She already had a bad day all through and now this. A few men, who had been close by, gathered and took her side. They argued with the man and tried convincing him to at least share the seat with the old man if not leave it for him. He wouldn't listen.

From the Diary of Daily Passenger : Chapter 07

The children played. Anindita watched. The train stopped at Madhupur, midway her journey. A man got into the compartment, handed the lady a two packets of Kurkure and a frooti. They had a little chat about some phone calls. Anindita looked about. A lot of people got down at Madhupur and a few people boarded. Some of them were men. A young boy was also there. He had saffron clothes on. He looked dirty, had a bag on his shoulders. He would not be more than 15 years of age. He was kind of a "teenage babaji". He sat adjacent to where Anindita was sitting. The people sitting beside her at the window had descended. The seat stared at her empty. She thought of moving to the window, but the sun shone hard. She stayed back where she was. The children were busy with Kurkure and frooti. The men sat around the "teenage babaji" and they were busy talking about something. Anindita did not pay much attention to them in the begenning. Sitting quietly for long, brought their words to her. The whole conversation was in Hindi.
One of the men said, "You smoke Gaanja at such a young age. It will harm you."
Teenage Baba replied, "Arey Beta, Gaanja smoking is not a big deal for people who have achieved things in life. I take very Satwik food and my body and mind is pure. Gaanja never harms a pure body and pure soul"
One man : "Babaji what is your age?"
Teenage Baba, "I am old enough. I look young due to my yoga. When you do yoga everyday, you never get old. My guru is 500 years old and he looks younger than me."

The men burst laughing. Anindita couldnt control her smile. One of the men controlled laughter and asked, "Who is you Guru? He is 500 years old then he should be very famous."
Teenage Baba: "Nobody knows him. He lives in the mountains near Nepal. I am coming from there."
One man: "And he smokes Gaanja too?"
Teenage Baba: "Yes he smokes 10 kilo Gaanja everyday."

Anindita couldnt help this time. She laughed out. The men were laughing like anything. Teenage Baba seemed to get angry. He said, "What do you know? You will laugh. All ignorant men laugh."
One Man: "Okay babaji we are sorry. Actually imagining a person who takes up 10 kilo gaanja in a day is kind of funny? A person would die in a single day."
Teenage Baba: "No, when you are pure and clean and strong, 10 kilo gaanja is nothing."
One Man: "One kilo Gaanja a day would also cost him a fortune. They have so much money in the himalayas?"
Teenage Baba: "My guruji doesnt have money. He has sponsors. There is a very rich man. He sends my Guru 10 kilo ganja everyday !"
One Man: "The rich man has to be very rich. Boy, do you know what you are talking? You are making fun of yourself."
Teenage Baba: "You are meager souls. You will never understand, that what I am telling you is true. The man is really very rich. You see, so many trains. These trains are all that rich man's. He buys all these trains and rents them out to the poorer people. All these trains are his. Do you understand how rich he is?"
The compartment thundered with laughter. Anindita couldnt help herself either. She giggled out loud. The woman in front of her, was listening too. In fact everybody who sat near laughed and the people farther away stared in awe at such a laughing commotion.

Teenage Baba seemed a bit embarrassed. He said, "Every meager soul laughs. But one day you will remember that you traveled with Baba Sarvananda."
One of the men asked, "Who is Baba Sarvananda?"
The train was nearing Jasidih. Teenage Baba looked at the man with eyes that were ready to curse. He got up, put his bag on his shoulders. He turned his back to us and as he walked towards the door, he uttered with an air of indifference, "That is me".
And without waiting for an answer, he went to stand at the gate.
Laughter filled the compartment once again.
One of the men said, "He is coming from the Himalayas, my foot! I see him every morning at Jasidih station. He begs on trains. He lives there on platform number 4."
A light discussion arose.

As the train slowed down, Anindita smiled to herself and got up. Jai Baba Sarvananda!

From the Diary of A Daily Passenger : Chapter 06

Anindita loved Saturdays. On Saturdays office was over by 12.30 p.m. It took her twenty minutes to cycle to the station. If she cycled fast, she managed it in 15 minutes. She boarded the train at 2 o'clock if the train be at right time. And by 4.30 p.m. she was home, on her bed lying down, resting her tired body, waiting for her mother to serve food.

She arrived at the station at 12.55 p.m., went to her usual bench and sat there under the fan. She waited until the air cooled her down a bit. Then she took out her bottle of cold water, thanking the office A.C. that cooled the warm water within half an hour. Her office did not have a water cooler. She cursed summers as she felt the cold water go down her trachea into her stomach. The sun was hot enough to exhaust her from that 20-minute drive to the railway station. She waited until she had cooled down enough to eat. Then out came her tiffin box, and she would eat, chew slowly so that it lasted till her train arrived. This was the usual stuff. Every Saturday she would do this. And when she was done eating, she would pack up her bag and sit there watching around for people.
She sometimes looked at the group of hawkers sitting with their saleables talking to each other, laughing and discussing things that to our ears would not be very pleasing or standard. Nevertheless Anindita listened. Now and then a group of young boys, most probably in their teens, passed by her staring at her and smiling at each other. She didn't mind, as long as they kept the talking and smiling to themselves. A beggar slept under the over bridge stairs, flies whining around him. Anindita thought he must have got used to sleep with them fluttering around him. The lady she disliked never traveled with her on Saturdays. Anindita guessed, she must be in her office then and Balia express would most probably be taking her home even on Saturdays. No, she wasn't missing her, she was just wondering, because she had nothing else to do but think.

The train was on time. She got into the ladies compartment. The ladies compartment on Toofan express was good. Seats were mostly available at her own discretion. She found herself a seat and sat down. There were all ladies around and some kids. Around the doors a few men lurked about. Most probably they had their female family members in the compartment.In front of her there was a lady with three children. The woman was beautiful but a bit fat. Women usually gain weight after marriage. She wondered why! And then imagined herself with a big tummy and children playing around her. It made her want to laugh. She suppressed that and managed with a smile to herself. Two of the children played, and the eldest one slept. The older two were girls and the youngest one was a boy. The oldest and the youngest looked like their their mom. They were fair and lovely like their mom was. The second child was not so beautiful, maybe she was like her father. Anindita loved watching them play. They moved about, laughing and playing. The girl loved her brother. She would amuse him and the boy giggled out loud. He would stand up on the seat and and stomp his feet and jerk his hands and laugh out with all his energy. The girl stood on the floor and giggled with him. Sometimes he would hold her head with his tiny hands, pull her closer, bend a little and kiss on her head. Sometimes he would hold her hair with both his hands and pull them hard, to bring her closer. The girl laughed as tears brimmed her eyes. She would then move closer to him and hug him with her small hands in return. Anindita smiled all along with them.The mother would then scold the boy and free the girl's hair from his hands.

The mother was watching Anindita as she watched the children play. Suddenly she said, "This is my brother-in-law's daughter. I have only two children, the girl who is sleeping and the boy."
Anindita replied, "Really? I thought they were all yours."
"No, Actually, her mother was very ill when she was born, so she used to be with me a lot. Since then its always like this. We are going to my brother's marriage. She wouldnt let me leave without her. So, I brought her with me." And she looked at the girl, brought her closer and hugged her. "She is my child. Arent you dear? I am your mother. Am I not sweetheart?"
The girl smiled and nodded.
Anindita thought what was it like. Was it like snatching away a kid from her mother, or was it like loving somebody just because you have given your love to her the first day she knew this world. She seemed possessive about the girl.

An Ode to Friendship

The walk on the railway tracks,
By the river as our laughter cracks,
As the sun dips into the waters
During the dusky hours.
Dark waters flow by.
Under the moon we lie.
A word or two, but often silence talks...
Barefoot on little pieces of rocks.
As the evening clouds turn red...
A lone bird flies with a crumb of bread...
Two pairs of eyes smile.
Two hands held... for miles !

Those miles end...
What remains is the afterglow
Of the walk... that prevailed

Some leisure hours by the bustle of the day,
Some evenings, Some moonlit skies,
A smile with a thought,
In one corner lies.

This poem was written for the purpose of a testimonial on orkut for a friend... We were the best of friends, till she got committed. We are still in touch and we are still great friends, and I know we always will be.

Some light poems do show up on the blog .. dont they?

Un-Welcoming change

She never thought that at one point of time in her life, she would sit up one night and wonder what was going wrong? Or maybe was it going right? All she could do was wonder. She had always been stubborn with her thoughts. She had made her own rules about life, applied her own logic to them. She had lived with people and adjusted well, loved and was equally loved, but her thoughts were born out of her own heart. She may not have spoken them out loud, but they existed firmly within her, explaining and growing all through.
And all of a sudden, she felt as if she was made to stand at the top of a hill and look below... at the city that lay in the valley. The same city where she had lived and never known, because she was in there, amidst the crowd. And now as she stood at the top of the hill, she saw the same things at a distant and from a different perspective. She was surprised and confused, because the things that were bigger and clearer once, were at the moment far away, unclear, yet she had her view stretched far and things had started to relate. And standing there, she wondered what made her climb up the hill. Yes, that was what she worried about the most - the reason for that uphill climb.
And as she climbed higher, she realized the change within herself. The change was simple and ordinary. Like finding the same music noisy that was once a tribute to ears. Like moving from the bustle of a city to the silence of the skies. Like falling in love with a flute instead of the guitar. Like sitting by the uphill road and watch a damselfly fly by instead of holding hands with the man she loved.
She knew he loved her, and she loved him back. Maybe she needed some time. Time enough to have seen the valley, time enough to walk down the hill, time enough to gather up her scattered thoughts and arrange them, time enough to un-welcome the change.

From the Dairy of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 05

The man asked, “You are a Bengali and you stay in Jharkhand?”
“Yes. My parents work here.”
“See, I am a Bihari and I stayed all my life in Kolkata and you are a Bengali and you always stayed in Bihar.” The man laughed.
Anindita smiled at his amusement.
When he was done, he continued, “Bengalis have a good culture. I like it, maybe because I have lived in Kolkata since my childhood. The best things about them is their ability to adapt to this changing world, take up the good things about the upcoming culture. We Biharis don’t do this. Look at us. Most of them still get emotional over dowry and caste and creed.”
He stopped for breath and looked at Anindita. So, she said, “Maybe because Bengalis were already much more unorthodox compared to others. So, the advancement is equal in both the cultures, just that they started from two different start points. And since we compare, we think the way you are thinking.”

The man was amused again. He said, “You are an intelligent girl. I don’t find girls talking this way. In fact this generation does not talk about these things. They have much more important things to do, like go to night clubs.”

Woh! That took Anindita up one step towards self praise. She found herself amused at his sole example of night clubs. She wondered why that was only example he could find. There were hundreds. Even she belonged to that group. It was just that she said these golden words at the right moment and left the man impressed. She said, “No uncle it’s not exactly like that. Maybe you never met such people or maybe they never discussed such things in front of you.”

In response he just uttered a “Hmm” and got back to his topic, “It is very difficult to change something in the society single handedly. I tell my friends that dowry is a bad thing. It should be avoided. In return people tell me that I am saying this because I have two daughters to marry off. If I had at least one son, I would have supported dowry. And whenever I promise myself that I will marry my daughters to someone who will despise dowry, I have this fear in me, what if I do not find such a man. It is very difficult not to think about it without worrying myself. You will know when you have children.”

Anindita thought why every grown up person uses this same sentence while explaining. She wondered if someday she would do that too. After all the statement did not leave any scope of arguments.

The man continued, “This is one of the things I like about Bengalis.”

Anindita replied, “No uncle, there are Bengalis too who indulge into the dowry system.”

“Yes, of course, exceptions are everywhere but its better among your culture. But then there are things I don’t like about Kolkata. Politics!”

Anindita smiled, “If you talk of politics uncle, I hate politics everywhere in India. And West Bengal’s problem is CP(I)M being in power for so long. But overall it is all the same everywhere.” And then Anindita smiled at herself. She was dumb when it came to politics, yet she loved the confidence in her tone. She did that every time. She knew Jasidih wasn’t far enough.

“Yes, yes you are right. But still, West Bengal, Bihar Jharkhand and Uttar Pradesh are worse.”

Anindita replied, “Yes” and she got up, put her bag on her shoulders and smiled at the man.

“Oh, you are already at your place. It was nice talking to you. At least I had a nice conversation with a nice young lady instead of keeping shut all the way.”

Anindita said, “And I too had a good time with you instead of sitting and doing nothing.

The train pulled into the station. Anindita went near the gate. The train slowed down and then stopped.

Author's Note: I dont remember this conversation very well. Whatever I presented in this part is a short form of what we talked about. There was more. I liked talking to him ! After all he liked Bengalis ! :D

From the Dairy of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 04

The day Anindita traveled in that ladies compartment on Balia Express, she made that promise to herself, never again in a ladies compartment not at least on board Balia Express. She knew there was humanity, but it was uneasy. She did not feel comfortable with them. Sophistication always took over. And who knows maybe someday the bunch in question wouldn’t like her and she would have to stand there in that jungle of uncivilized women. She would hate that. Since she always came back to Deoghar every weekend earlier, she had seen regular passengers always getting into sleeper compartments. She realized, this was possible in Jharkhand and Bihar. Something assured her, nobody is going to fine her or anybody else for getting onto a sleeper class for a couple of hours. So, after that experience of the ladies compartment, she always boarded a sleeper class, usually the last or the second last.

There was another woman, who got into the same sleeper class compartment everyday from Chittaranjan and traveled till Jasidih. When Anindita reached Chittaranjan station, she sat there quietly. She always found the woman with a man. They would talk and laugh. Sometimes one or two other people would join them, ask them how they were doing and then they would go their own ways. The two always stayed back together. In the beginning, Anindita thought the two were married to each other. Most probably they worked at the same office and then they must have fallen in love and then married each other. “Perfect Couple!”, Anindita thought and smiled to herself. Anindita had a specific seat at the station. She always sat at the same place and waited for the train. The couple also had their specific place, but since it was far enough not to be heard, Anindita never heard them talking. She would look at the woman, and stare at her, until she would realize that she had been staring. Then she would look away. The woman wasn’t beautiful. She was a little healthier than could be classified under the beautiful category. She hadn’t great looks, a thick nose, wasn’t fair, though not dark. She did not have dark waist length hair or a wonderful hair style. She had her hair parted in the middle and Anindita saw the vermilion line that helped society to classify women into the married category. She had a little ponytail, well oiled and made up. Anindita did not like her. She did not know why. She could not give one single reason why she disliked her. So, even if they usually got into the same compartment, they never talked to each other. They could have, if Anindita would have initiated, but she didn’t for the sole reason of dislike.

That day Anindita did not see the woman on the platform. She thought maybe she was on a holiday. She sat there all by herself. She noticed the man walking up and down on the platform. The train arrived. Anindita boarded the train. She never asked anybody for a seat. She felt bad. These men were traveling a long distance and they were justified if they expected to relax themselves instead of offering her a seat. But, all the days that she traveled, somebody always offered her a seat. Sometimes she did sit down by herself, when she found only one or two people on one whole big seat. And as she sat, she always told them that if they need to relax they could tell her so, she would leave the seat. But they always eagerly offered her the seat. And some of them even had a chat with her.

Well, that was not exactly the idea. Anindita knew rejection of a seat would be very humiliating. So, she never asked for one. And the second reason was, politeness always worked. In this case too, it did.

She got into the second last sleeper compartment. She kept walking through the mass of seats and people until she reached the last coop. On the seat for three only one man sat. This was an exception. Anindita sat down at one end. The man turned to look. Anindita said, “If you want to sleep or something let me know.” And she smiled. The man said, “No, its okay.”

The man busy looking out of the window. Somtimes he would rest his head on the seat cushion behind , close his eyes. Then all of a sudden he would look outside. Anindita watched him doing that.

Sometime later, the man turned towards towards her and asked, “You study here?”

Anindita explained, “No. I am on training.”

"Sorry ! Cudnt hear you!", and he moved a bit closer.

What followed was a set of questionnaire as to what kind of training, her schooling, her qualifications, etc. Anindita explained.

The man said, “I have two daughters. They are younger than you. Still in school!” He smiled. Anindita smiled back and asked, “Which class?”

“The younger one is in ninth. The other is doing graduation in commerce. They are not very brilliant. But I made them study so that later in life they can look after themselves if anything happens.”

He paused. Anindita reciprocated the conversation with a smile.

55 Word Fiction : Devoid of Dreams

I know I know... my 3rd post today !!!
Remember .. Quote for today was "Love your Blog !" (Check earlier posts)

Anyways, No idea who had come up with this concept and didn't try to find it out... I read it first on Dhiman's blog. 55 word fiction is a story in 55 words. I am good when large number of words are concerned, but i thought it could be exciting, so here is my story...



He was dreaming.
Mohan, village school, Sita's face , fishing net, fishes, a plate of rice, Fees for the doctor...

Sita sat by him, putting wet rags on his burning forehead. Mohan slept peacefully.

Next morning. Sita cried, little confused Mohan clutched into her lap. The dead body lay still, devoid of dreams.

Short Story : In the Balcony

She stroked her baby. It was late. The clock struck 1.30. The baby had woken her up. She took it into her lap and slowly moved it to and fro. The baby fell back asleep. She looked at her husband. He was sleeping peacefully, snoring lightly. She knew he loved her. She could feel it. He took her restaurants and to shopping malls because he knew she loved to go out. He took her with him to places he went for business trips because he knew that she loved traveling. She loved him too. They were happy. Sometimes when she wrote a poem, she wished him to read it. He always did. And smiled back at her and said, “Well written.” She knew, he read it to make her happy.

She put the baby back into its bed, and lay down herself. She couldn’t sleep. This has been happening since she had the baby. Once she woke up, it was hard getting back to sleep again. And the baby often woke up at night. It was born during the day and people had told her babies who are born in the day, don’t usually sleep well at night.

She got up and went to the balcony. She leaned on the railing and looked far into the darkness. She could see the black cement silhouettes and a tree now and then. She looked up in the sky. The moon wasn’t there. Maybe it was sometime around a new moon night.

It was long time ago. She was afraid then. Afraid of society, afraid of her loved ones, afraid of being disowned. Afraid of loving a man, holding him and walk by him every evening to the lonely beach she loved.

She remembered one restless night, waiting to meet him for the first time. And then followed an excited morning and then a college canteen meeting and a lovely afternoon together.

She knew him from an orkut community. He was the owner of a moderated Taslima Nasrin community. He had accepted the join request silently. Then one day, she put her picture in her profile. She could be classified under the beautiful ones. No, she wasn’t ugly. A few days after the picture was uploaded, he scrapped her. A very common thing! She was used to it. So, she replied back, never giving it much thought. And then followed long hours of chatting. They both were in college hostels then. She had hundreds of friends and so did he. But they were happy together. She did know why that boy liked her. But she liked him because he was so sensitive and emotional. He knew the world was cruel and he had that beautiful soft corner for people for whom he wanted to do something. He spoke against the cruelty to Muslim women. They spoke of society, politics, terrorism and poverty. And he had another side too, that was wonderfully soothing, calm and caring. He loved poetry, created them. He knew to sing though she never had the chance to listen to him singing. He loved books, they talked of books. He was three yearsyounger to her. This had always been a funny issue. She never let him forget that he was younger. And he hated her for reminding him everyday. She always laughed about it and he scorned at her that left her with a naughty smile.

She often remembered that day they met. The day was very hot. They had a cold drink each. He paid. She teased him about it. She was older. She was supposed to pay. They walked up to the beach. That was her favorite beach. She took him to the tree. She did not know which tree it was. But she loved sitting on the rock under it. She told him so. They sat together under it. They laughed, smiled. They had so much to talk of. And then that evening he left. That was the last time she saw him. She had been happy.

And then a few days later he proposed. She declined. He reacted. He called her hard hearted. She cried that day. Slowly, emotions fizzed off. The anger, the passion, the desperation and then the pain fizzed off. They talked sometimes, now and then, sometimes on the phone, sometimes over the internet. Then there had been one night, when they were awake all through. They heard the birds chirp, together. Together they watched the dawn creep into their rooms through the window. That night she told her, how afraid she was of everybody around her. She was a Hindu. Her parents trusted her. Trusted her hat she would marry a person of her own community. And there was a Muslim boy three years younger to her, expecting love in return for everything that he gave her. A Muslim boy who dreams of a society where nobody would tell a story of a Hindu girl and a Muslim boy but would just smile listening to a story of a boy and a girl madly in love. And there were her parents, who gave her whatever she had now, who loved her more than herself. Parents, who had that unsaid assurance from their daughter that she would never let them down. She had stood at a confusing cross road. And she wished she could walk both the roads. She chose one and sometimes thought about the other road – the road she left behind. The other road… where a boy had waited by the road, stretched out his hands, wanted to hold her and walk together by her side.

But sometimes, she wanted to escape to that beach, to sit on that rock under that tree. Read out a poem aloud and watch him listen to her.

The baby cried out. She went in. Took it into her arms and came back to the balcony. She sang lightly and lulled the baby to sleep, and thought of writing a story about it. Then she thought, this was such a common issue. Falling in love and then marrying a boy of family’s choice and then on some nights stand in a lonely balcony and think of him. But how wonderfully this story of thousands was so special to her! How unique she felt about the feelings and it was hard to imagine that maybe thousands of people felt the same way as she did on this lonely balcony while singing their baby to sleep.

The baby was quiet. She looked at it. Sleeping peacefully, it smiled. She smiled too.

P.S. : I dont usually write such stories. Am bad wen it comes to love stories. A very very common plot, but I wanted to write about it. A first attempt! Hoping its bearable.

My Stupid AB Rhyme

I get up early

And set my hair curly

I brush my teeth

A thought to eat

It’s ONLY seven!!!!

Oh God! I swear to heaven.

To break my fast

I cook at last.

Computer switched on

Poof! The lights gone.

The UPS cries,

My energy dies.

I take a shower

I check the hour

Off to office I go,

My work – well I know

I work the day

And rest ! Nay !

The clock’s five thirty

I leave, still hearty.

Back home

I sit alone

I think a bit

Between my lips a cigarette lit.

Or maybe I watch

A movie or a match

Or a poem, down I pen

As silly thoughts rain

And in my empty head they chime

Following a stupid AB AB rhyme.

So, I stop.

About the empty room I hop

For I have no work

And none to talk

After a while I dine

And go to bed a little later nine

And dream about a morn

Of a different alarm’s horn

Hoping to see something new

But I guess that’s not yet due

So, no complains for the wait

I have patience for the late.

P.S. : An example of killing time.

From the Diary of a Daily Passenger : Chapter 3

Another middle aged woman was sitting on the floor just beside the fat woman. A baby played in her lap. Must be her granddaughter or grandson. She affirmed the fat lady, “Yes, these men now-a-days, they never care about families. All they know is bidi and friends.”

The baby looked at Anindita, stretched one its arms at her and smiled. It uttered some sounds, maybe tried to say something in his own baby language to her. Anindita smiled back. She bent down and put her index finger into the baby’s palm. The baby grasped it, and smiled. She jerked her hand and the baby was amused. It laughed. The grandmother looked at the two of us, smiled and said, “The baby’s a she. Her daughter.”, and pointed behind her. Anindita looked. It was a young woman with another young girl in her lap, sitting right behind the old woman. The old woman continued, this time in a hushed voice, “She has six daughters. Every time, she hopes for a boy. I don’t know how she is going to marry them off. I was telling her just now to stop thinking about children again. What if the seventh one is a girl again? It is costly, marrying off daughters. Your mother will know, how the thought of marrying a daughter can take off all of your sleep. I know. I have married off my daughters. Bringing them into this world and marrying them to unworthy husbands due to lack of money… Not good. It’s better not to have so many daughters.”

Anindita asked, “She is your daughter-in-law?”

The old woman laughed, “No, No, This woman, she is not my relation; I met her here, on this train. I have just two daughters of my own. Both married. They are educated. Both have passed tenth from school. They can read write so well. I am visiting my elder daughter. She lives in Chhapra.”

Flavors of life! Anindita smiled.

The old woman suddenly said, “Can I make a call from your phone? To my elder daughter. I will just say that I am safe and in the train, and I will reach Chhapra in the morning?”

Things were fine till now. But why a phone call! When it comes to phone calls, Anindita was a miser. She usually had minimum balance and sometimes no balance even. She gave the woman a pathetic smile and said, “Okay.”

The woman fumbled into her clothes and brought out a piece of paper. She held it into the light and read out a number. A mobile number. Anindita dialed, but the connection couldn’t be established. Anindita checked her phone. To her relief, it was out of network coverage.

Anindita prayed, that the phone stay out of network coverage until she reached Jasidih. It wasn’t far. Maybe ten more minutes and she would be at her station. She said to the woman, “Abhi to network nahi hai. When the network is back, I will connect you to your daughter.”

Anindita did not know if the woman understood what she said. Maybe she thought that Anindita did not want the woman to use her phone. She hoped the phone remains out of network coverage area for the next 10 minutes. She would reach her destination by then.

The eunuch woman in the white sari said, “Yeah, now-a-days this is a common problem.”

Anindita looked at her. The woman continued, “Kaun sa phone hai aapka? Airtel?”

Anindita said, “No, BSNL”

“Same problem with all of them.”

“Yes.”

The woman beside the eunuch woman asked her something. They talked. Anindita looking at the eunuch woman. She was the liveliest among all, laughing and cracking jokes and also the best dressed, though her looks betrayed her and showed that she belonged to the other illiterate mass in the train. Another woman sitting beside Anindita, smiled and said, “She is my elder sister. She is a good dancer. That is her profession. She looks after our family.”

Anindita realized, she had been staring at the eunuch woman.

She looked at the woman who had spoken. She had been quiet all the while. Anindita asked, “Where do you all live?”

“Kolkata. But originally we are from Chhapra. My father died when I was a little girl. He worked in a medicine shop in BouBazar. Accident! After that Didi looked after us. We are three sisters and one brother. We were very small then. She married off the two of us sisters. Our brother lives with his family… Separate. And didi now lives with mother. There!”, and she pointed to a very old woman sleeping on the bunk. “We are going to our cousin’s marriage. My Chacha’s daughter. In Chhapra.”

Anindita did not know what to say. She smiled a wry smile.

“She dances in a bar. She is a good dancer.” And the woman smiled a proud smile. Anindita smiled back.

The rest of the ten minutes Anindita wondered, what a life it would have been for the girl. She wondered how very different each of these women was. Each one of them had a different story, a different life. Though journeying to different places, yet, at that moment they all were together, like one single family. She had spent two hours with them, yet she didn’t know which person belonged to which family, or even how many families were there. One’s sorrow so easily moved another. One smile infected others. One wouldn’t find sophistication, but humanity in them. After today, they would never meet, or make phone calls, or email one another. But still they traveled as if have been living together for ages.

Most probably the women would stay up all night. The children would sleep. Mothers would talk in hushed voices, not to wake up their kids. Once in a while a baby would cry. Its mother would feed it, or stroke it lightly, until it falls back asleep. Now and then the train would pull up at a station and hawkers would call out, maybe somebody would have a cup of tea to keep them awake and energized to sit up all night. The old man who was sitting at the gate, maybe he would place his rag on the floor and lie down there itself.

And then at six o’clock (if the train be right time, which I guess it wouldn’t), the same compartment would be empty… void of laughter, cries, snores, shouts, fights. Early morning, as the platform would bustle with noise, sometimes a bird’s tweet as it would get lost into the din, and the dark, dirty, lonely compartment would wait for another set of people that night.

Anindita saw the familiar lights of a familiar station. The train pulled up at the Jasidih station. Anindita got up; smiled at the women she had been with, for the last two hours and got down at the station.

(End of one part. A new part and a new chapter starts next... But its going to take a few dyas.. I'll be out of station for a few days... See you once i am ack.. Till then... bbye!)

From the diary of a Daily Passenger: Chapter 2

Another set of women had boarded at Chittaranjan. They had sacks full of something (most probably stolen pieces of coal) and they were trying to make room for the sacks under the seats. As she approached the coop Anindita was in, Anindita realized the air was getting irritating. The lady with the sack tried pushing the sack under the seat and in the process spoiled the fat woman’s saaree with her black coal laden sack.. The fat woman shouted, “Take it somewhere else. There is no place here. Go, Go.”

She snatched the sack and pulled it out of the seat and thrust it away. The lady to whom the sack belonged, shouted back, “Tohre baap ke train chho (Is this you father’s train)?”

The air turned hotter. Anindita sat there quietly, and looked at the women. Everybody there participated. The lady with the sack on one side and others against her. The only person who did not participate was Anindita, because she did not belong here. She belonged to the sophisticated society, where people don’t fight like animals, where people don’t fight for anything.

The fight continued for sometime, and then as the lady with the sack turned away losing the battle, Anindita heard the fat woman, still shouting, “Say politely, you were spoiling my saaree. Why wouldn’t I shout at you? Say nicely, everybody is traveling, everybody will have seat. I gave my seat to this girl. Why would I not let you put your sack? Now, put it under the seat.” Everybody else affirmed her.

And to Anindita’s surprise, the other ladies helped her push the heavy sack under the seat. She wondered what they fought for, after all.

The fat woman sat down again calmly. Her boy hung on her lap. She had such a big tummy that there was very little room in her lap for the boy. She held her boy to prevent him from falling. She was done talking to Anindita. She was done fighting. Now she turned to her fellow passengers.

“Don’t you know ? ‘Suraj ki Ma’ (Suraj’s mother) is a very good singer. Ae Suraj ki maa, Sing for us.”

Suraj ki Maa answered, “No, I have quit singing. They were old days. My throat hurts.”

“You sang last week, on Rupali’s marriage. I was there. Now sing us a bhajan. You know lots of good bhajans(songs to Gods).”

Suraj ki Maa smiled, started to sing in a feeble voice, “Shivji ki jai jai… Bhole ki jai jai…”

Anindita did not remember the song except these two chorus lines. It was sung in the local dialect. She listened, as one by one, women joined Suraj ki Maa in the singing.

The song was awful. She did not understand much of it. But even then there was a melody. Coarse voices sang and Anindita found a sense of togetherness, belongingness and joy. Devotion existed but on a lower note. And as she listened to that harsh unpolished melody of different women singing she wondered how many of these women knew each other before they boarded the train.

The song would have continued, but a young lady from the adjacent coop interrupted. She was young, most probably recently married, and looked less than 18 years. The lady or better the girl from the adjacent coop peeked in and addressed the woman who looked like a eunuch and said, “Since then he has not come even once. Will you call him up once?”

The eunuch lady replied in surprise, “He got down in Bandel, right? Did he not come back after that?”

The married girl shook her head in negative. “Wait I will call him. Don’t worry. Saala! battery bhi khatam ho raha hai. (Even the phone’s battery is almost discharged)”

The lady tried calling whoever the man in question was. She tried a few times and then got puzzled and said, “Its saying that the number does not exist.”

The whole environment went tense. Anindita intervened, “Put a zero at the beginning of the number.”

The eunuch lady replied, “But, in Bandel, I did not put a zero. It worked.”

Anindita explained, “When you change states, you need to put a zero. Earlier you were in Bengal. Now you are Jharkhand. So that would be required.”

She tried again, “Now it says unreachable.”

Anindita had nothing more to say. She simply suggested to keep trying.

People discussed about the man. Anindita listened. What she deciphered from their discussion was that, this young girl’s husband was taking his wife and mother-in law to Balia for some reason and he was in the general compartment. He came to the ladies compartment once in Bandel to make sure his wife and mother-in-law were alright and has not come back since then. His wife was worried that maybe he had left the two of them and has gone away. The young girl was crying and so was her mother. Anindita could hear them. The lively atmosphere was gone. No bhajans, no fights, no leg pulling. The whole thing revolved round one single thing. The young girl and her mother. One woman sent her 11 year old son to look for the man in other compartments. The eunuch lady was trying the guy on phone. People had those worried looks. The grim looks lasted and the 11 year old boy who had gone to search for the man returned and with him came the man. A movie moment. Anindita imagined him rush into the apartment, hug his wife, look at him lovingly and say, “How could I ever leave you?” She turned to have a look. A dark skinny man in a fiery orange T-shirt, a bidi burning between his lips, eyes set in two big sockets, and pimples all over his face. He came in, looked at his wife and uttered two words, “Stop whining.” And he turned away to look outside through the door.

That was one movie moment. The girl stopped crying. For a moment the compartment lay silent. Nobody spoke.

Then Anindita heard somebody say, “Pagli, You cried like a child. Why would he leave such a nice wife like you? Now stop crying my child.” People started talking. Some consoled the girl, some cursed the man. Some just discussed the situation. It was funny, how completely unknown people could relate so well to one another. These people hadn’t met ever, before this afternoon. Yet, one problem belonged to every one of them. Yet the whole compartment seemed to be a family traveling together. Maybe, because they led a similar kind of life full of similar hardships.

The fat woman, her sleepy boy still hanging from her lap, said to me, “Mera Aadmi is not like this. He looks after me well. Very possessive about me. I was then newly married. And I was talking to a guy in the neighborhood. That night he beat me up like anything and forbade me to speak to any man. He said it made him jealous. He comes to visit me after every two station. Not like that bastard.” And she laughed.

Anindita wondered, what kind of love that could be. It was so inhumane. But she could see the sense of security in those eyes that came from her husband’s possessiveness about her.

(contd.)