THE WRONG TRAIN

(An almost faithful account of the narration of a true incident that amused me, written as the narrator.)

     “Vish…vishwa…”

     “Oh! It’s Vishwavidyalaya. Do hurry up.”

     It was our first journey back from college and I could not sympathize with my friend’s requirement to improve her Hindi at the bus station just then. The questioning stares that we received that day were probably not unwarranted. The whole world seemed to be swimming in utter pettiness as we took our first steps into the world of trust and responsibility. We left hold of our parents hands that had directed us on every journey taken before.

     “Hey, do you have the tickets?”

     “Yes, for the tenth time, I do.”

     “The courier service which brought the tickets here didn’t come cheap. And I’m not missing the train because you forgot the tickets.”

    

     As we entered the railway station, time slowed down as the clock seemed to laugh at us while shouting out that we were almost an hour early. But the minor disappointment fought a bitter battle in vain against the joy of going back home.

     We were full of reassurances for our mutual friend who happened to be travelling in the opposite direction. We, the experienced travellers…the only difference this time being that our parents were not breathing fire down our necks.

     On reaching the platform, the presence of the train Agra Cant irritated us in the slightest bit. Having mutually enquired after each other’s comfort we settled down for a wait which we knew would be long based on our trust of the railway system.

     “Hey, we happen to be standing in front of the coach that we are supposed to be taking.”

     “Too bad it’s the wrong train then.”

     Laughing out loud at the joke, we shifted our focus to the people around. The best thing about a crowd is that there is never a dearth of things to notice. There will always be something that you haven’t seen before or heard before. The different voices and scenes with no apparent relation to each other rise together to form the unique symphony of a railway station. And so we stayed…

     After half an hour of wait, patience started oozing out of us and the intensity of the curses heaped on the Agra Cant kept strengthening. The train, the stay of which meant a further delay of our train, was almost toppled over by the force of our insults.

     After half an hour of curses, our prayers and wishes were answered by the heavens when the train slowly started moving away from the platform. Our spirits waltzed in joy and anticipation.

     We laughed at them who seemed to have spotted the train only when it had started moving and was trying to get into it. There were people falling over each other to get into the leaving train. When it was just a few meters away from us and we had laughed to our hearts content, I looked in the opposite direction, waiting with barely contained excitement for the Gomti express.

     “Go…Gom…Gomti…Ah! Gomti express…”

     “What?”

     “Oh my! Gomti express!”

     “Where did you read that?”

     Her gaze directed me towards the moving train that was just beyond our reach. Tucked away cozily behind the train was it's name that had recently become old, 'Gomti express'.We picked our bags and ran like we never knew we could and then, when the train picked up speed, came to an abrupt stop experiencing stillness like never before. We looked at each other for a while. It took us a couple of minutes to come to terms with what had just happened. We waited for a train beside it for an hour and missed it because we were on the wrong side of the door. The laughter of the people around mingled with the voice of the railway station and mockingly brought us back to reality, one in which we had a lot to deal with just then.

     Since then I have never trusted the name of a train and have relied on their numbers and will until they start changing abruptly.

JOY

     I wonder which that day was when I went crazy, like every child born into this society has to, or rather is made to.

     Born I was to this world. I do not really recollect much from those days, the days when I cried for food when I was hungry, slept when I was sleepy and demanded for my mother when I became lonely. Contended I was when I was fed, happy I felt sleeping. My mother’s arms meant the world to me and my father, oh, how much we laughed together.

     Then came that day when I lost my senses, that day when I was pulled into this den that forms what they call ‘the world’.” Wish for more” they said. And yes I wished. I wished for discontentment, for unhappiness and my wishes like those of every other man on this planet were satisfied.

     I run like crazy behind those things that are always beyond my reach, things that are always disappearing round the corners. Dark alleys everywhere I turn and anywhere I look. They ask me to look for light, to search for a ray among the dense fog. But away from me the beam moves. Each time I see it, I sense its presence, it moves away from me at a speed which forms the limit of motion in the universe, the speed of light.

     I look around, I search around, not once realizing that all I have to do is to stop, and look near me. Never noticing that the flame that I am in constant search of was and is right in front of me. Brightness I am busy searching for among light and darkness I try in vain to remove from around a fire.

     Those days when I lay in my mothers hands, starring at the ceiling, I was happy. I think I realized that even the sorrow that pinched me hard when my mother’s face grew cloudy was part of my joy of living. In those infant days, I was capable of sensing the light around me.

     What blinds me today, I do not know. But know I do that I am blinded, that my eyes are shut as tight as could possibly be.

      I want to open my eyes. I wish everyone would open their eyes, to see that the sun shines on us, that the flowers smile at us, that those birds and bees are the ones singing, wanting us to share with them their beautiful songs. I want to feel once more the joy in just living, just having that kiss from my mother, the smile from my father, that punch from my brother, like in those days when they say you were yet to learn to make sense,  but those that I consider the most meaningful days of our lifetimes…