An ex-railway officer’s daughter, I love train journeys. Thanks to the Indian Railways we traversed the length and breadth of India during our holidays. So, it was with great excitement that I boarded the 1st class compartment of Rajdhani—a couple of years ago—and my, what a memorable journey it was.
I walk into my coupe to see three women of varying ages—with one sitting on my seat. I tell her the seat belongs to me. “We’ll adjust,” says Kiran (no, actually I’ll call her Karen in this post). Within 15 minutes Karen’s asked me every personal question possible—where do you live? Are you a Bengali? Are you married? Do you have children? How old are they? — and shared her life story. Karen’s young daughter is trying not to have eye contact with me.
Thirty minutes into the journey tea is served and what a spread it was. Although tempted, I politely refuse as I was still savouring my lunch.
“What you won’t have the kachori (fried flat bread with stuffing) and soanpapdi (dried dessert)?” Karen’s mother asks me. I shake my head and offer my tray to her.
“No, please don’t, Mummyji is severely diabetic. But I will keep it, in case I get hungry later,” Karen says.
Conversation continues, “You are as old as my mother, but you’ve maintained yourself so well.” “How old is your mother?” I ask. “She’s 76,” Karen says. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so decide to enjoy the scenery outside .
The next hour she’s on the phone to her husband either berating him for not buying an air ticket, barking orders at him, or asking him to sing to her. The daughter is squirming on her seat, while I’m trying to keep a straight face—burying my face in the book I was hoping to read.
It is at this moment both my husband and brother decide to call me. I’m trying not to giggle and answer in monosyllables. Karen is eavesdropping and when I hang up says, “You know I come from a very rich family but do all the housework with the help of three maids.” – Ouch.
She then rings the bell and criticises the attendants about the quality of food, cleanliness, bad service etc. etc. They run around trying to appease her, but still not happy she calls for the supervisor and complains about not being welcomed with a rose.
It’s 7.30pm and dinner is served. I’m bracing myself for complaints about the quality of food but thankfully, nothing. Karen looks at my dinner, “Continental food?” I nod. Mummyji asks about the ice cream and the chocolate left untouched. “You can have it,” I offer. Karen declines, while Mummyji eyes the chocolate.
A couple of hours have passed when suddenly Mummyji starts shivering. Out comes extra sets of clothes and she’s now wrapped up like a mummy. I offer Panadol—my cure for everything.
“I have to ask my husband; Mummyji is diabetic, so I’ve got to be careful,” Karen says. Husband’s called. She nods vigorously and then screams at her husband again for not buying air tickets. She takes the Panadol and the next few hours are spent in relative quietness.
I’m suddenly woken up from deep sleep by a crunching noise. Mummyji is sitting on her seat happily eating soanpapdi with a chocolate wrapper next to her foot. She looks at me guiltily and smiles—shushing me simultaneously.
We are awakened the next morning with the news that the train is running late by three hours. Karen’s daughter is looking for her misplaced chocolate. Mummyji looks at me imploringly and I look back with a sly smile.
I’m nearing Asansol. Karen is all emotional; her daughter’s listening to music, and Mummyji gives me a hug and a wink .
Recent Comments