Walking onto a platform in a Mumbai suburb on a weekday morning is like an achievement unlocked on Foursquare. The intense Tuesday morning sunlight at Bandra Station was not cordial when I arrived there. When my boss thumped me with a sudden business travel to Kota, I demanded a first-class ticket. At least that was a welcome change. But a summer morning’s travel from Mumbai means a double shower and still feeling clammy. As I got onto the first-class coach of Bandra-Amritsar Express, most of it was empty during weekday travel. Being first class, I had to admit, it was somewhat luxurious and in front of me were, comfy looking, but empty seats.
As the train lurched forward, a Muslim family of three entered the coach. The man (the head of the family) was haphazard. He had a long beard, grey hair and a hat, and was talking to his wife who was in a burkha. The young girl was not talking much, just smiling at everyone who walked by. I looked at them and the man gazed at me. The young girl looked for a power outlet to charge her tablet. The man would check his phone and then he would look at me. I pretended to not look at him by shifting the direction of my gaze. That moment of a lull, while we were still wondering about each other, felt like an eternity. The family was talking in Urdu. It was hard to understand what they were saying. At first, I ignored them. The animated gestures of the man in the empty coach seemed even more vivid.
Trains are the greatest metaphor for life if one realizes that life is a journey and not a destination. When I looked at this family of three, they were lost in their small world. The little girl had her eyes tightly focuses on the digital screen. The old man delved into everything around him. I wish I had the courage to start up a conversation with anyone at any moment. But I was aloof. As the train picked up speed, the man and me stared at each other, but with no real talk. In my imagination, I was talking to them freely and they too to me. Despite India being secular, there was rarely a free exchange between Hindus and Muslims, unless it was about Bollywood, cricket, or schools. The man was mumbling about Ajmer Dargah to his wife. I was reading a book. Once in a while, I lowered the book slightly to stare at them. The kitchen vendor passed a few times to ask if we wanted to order anything for lunch. The little girl was busy on the tablet. Her mom asked her about food, but she was lost in her world. I put the book in my bag and opened my laptop to do some work.
The man and his wife were having a heated discussion about a bag the woman was clutching in her hands. As a stranger, I tried to ignore them, but I wondered about the reason for holding a bag so close to her chest in an almost empty coach. Also, the way the woman was holding that bag, it could create suspicion in anyone’s mind. Most of her face was covered, so you could only see her brown eyes.
“I told you to keep the bag at home. Why did you bring it with us?” the man said to her.
“I was not going to do that after what happened last time when we were not home.”
“Don’t talk in a loud voice.”
The ordinary bag had become the center of attention in the almost empty coach. The man tried to snatch it from her. But she refused to let it go. After a few futile attempts, he gave up. Their argument about a bag seemed unfathomable in that coach. These kinds of incidents in a train generally made me socially inept. I kept myself glued to the laptop screen, pretending I was working.
At Surat Station, the little girl switched from the tablet to her mom’s phone and the woman looked at her. “Are you browsing through pictures again?” the woman asked her.
“Mommy, why do we have pictures of pictures?” The air-conditioned first class coach was making me feel cold. I had wrapped my arms around me while staring at the screen. I looked at the mother and daughter; they looked at me. The awkward stare was not strange between us. The man was looking outside through the closed window. First-class coaches don’t have the same comfort of diversity you witness in second-class coaches. Just being around strangers in second-class coaches, you can poke around their lives. First-class coaches are one-dimensional in that respect.
At Ahmedabad Station, when I got out of the coach to buy some food, that same man walked with me. Food vendors were busy at the station selling several Gujrathi food items like pappadha and kachoris. There was a certain sweetness in their voices; maybe it was just a Gujju characteristic. The man from the coach bought some food items and we gazed across the vendor’s cart at each other. As the train whistle blew, we got into the coach together.
“Ahmedabad can be a busy station. It is famous for its food,” he said to me.
I nodded in agreement. He offered the food to the woman and her daughter.
The little girl started to eat while Aunty was hugging the bag close to her chest. The behavior was nothing short of suspicious. It put my guard up. I was trying not to panic. However, if there was anything in the bag, she wouldn’t be holding it so tightly. That thought made me a little more comfortable for a moment, but all the negative thoughts kept coming up in my mind. I tried to remain upbeat. The man said something to her in Urdu that I didn’t understand. The train accelerated. Ajmer was still a few hours away. The man fell asleep on his seat. The daughter was playing a game on the phone while her mom was silent and calm with the bag in her hand. She, too, fell asleep while resting the bag on the floor, but holding its top in her hand. The cold air in first-class coach can make one drowsy.
Suddenly when the phone rang, the man woke up in a hurried fashion, confused. As he realized it was just the alarm on the phone going off, he decided to stay awake. He stood up to take a walk but as he stepped towards the aisle, he accidentally and unknowingly kicked the bag. It got thrown out of the woman’s hand and flew horizontally, hitting the bottom part of the opposite seat and getting knocked open. The woman woke up realizing the bag had opened and a huge photo of a young man had popped out. The news cutting featuring the same young man in pictures of the burning Gujarat riots of 2002 also flew out.
This short story is from my book 500 Miles. You can buy the book here.