Dawn

The morning was damp, fog obscured the outside. I sat at the window guessing what was flashing by… fields? Forests? Towns? I did not know. It did not matter, every second I was closer to home.

The wheels of the coach, were singing a lullaby, the rest of the coach was asleep. They were peasants, traveling back from the markets. Their clothes showed fewer patches than I expected, though the color had faded, and they were all different tinges of a dull grey, though, a few sarees, showed, brighter or darker stains. A print or stains I wondered. Tattered gunny bags cluttered the space beneath the berths. A few had spread out on their berths, but most of them were sitting up, sharing seats they had paid for, with strangers, for reasons that did not make sense to me.

I had paid for my berth, but restlessness had driven away any thought of rest, so I shared it with three others. A doubt kept nagging me… had I really shared the berth, or did I just not want to lose face before these others, who apparently had less to give than I? The others were now asleep, propped by the shoulders of their fellows.

I watched the fog roll by.

It was my first visit back home, since having joined college. I wondered how many things would have changed.

The train’s rhythm slowed, it was stopping. Why? Looking out of the window, I made out the shape of a tin sheet, barely higher than my window, supported by two columns of steel, as far apart as the coach was long. A single naked bulb lit up a few feet of dirt, near the middle. Under the bulb two figures waited for the train to stop rolling.

They were bundled up in their shawls, and I could not make out anything of their faces, not even the glow of their eyes. A board behind them, half lit by the halo of the bulb, declared the place to be Pipal Pur.

With a last protesting screech, the train came to a halt. The doors of our coach opened, and the figures climbed in. They made their way towards our compartment, glancing at the seat numbers, gingerly finding place for their feet amongst the clutter of baskets and sleepers that the aisle had become.

As they came closer I made out one of them was a woman, and the other a man.

They stopped at our compartment.

 Lying on the opposite birth was a man, sprawled out, with one leg on the floor. He was still wearing his slippers. His Dhoti, had almost come away from his hips. The tunic above it was dirty, and torn. A large gash ran from his missing breast pocket down to his waist, and was arrested by the double stitching of the hem. The gash, showed a hairy, dirty brown chest, heaving as he slept.

I had got used to his stench a long time ago, but looking at him again, I realized how strong it was, and how disgusting. A combination of alcohol, and dirt, collected over weeks. He was drunk none of us had spoken to him since he had come on board.

When he had climbed on board, at the last station on the outskirts of Delhi, the berth had been empty. He loped to it, his eyes red, and breath stinking, when he saw the empty berth, he stopped. Resting his arm on the ladder that led to the other berths above us, he looked around, waiting for a challenge.

Since I was the only one in the compartment at the time, he stared at me, and then suddenly sat down. He stank of everything disgusting I could imagine, somehow all those smells were rolled into one stencg, yet each was distinct enough to cause nausea on its own.

When the train had rolled out of the station, he relaxed a little. And looked around… I was still the only one around. With a dismissive nod in my direction, he reached into dhoti, and taken out a small bottle, with a small amount of dirty yellow liquid in the bottom. He drank it, in one quick gulp, smacked his lips, and then slipped the bottle through the bars of the window. He looked around, like he was going to say something… then slumped against the back of his berth.

Since then he must have shifted into this more comfortable position.

The man in the shawl, took out a dirty crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and looked at it, and then at the number above the drunk’s berth. He exchanged glances with the woman and then he strode forward. He came level with the drunk’s head, and shook him.

Surprisingly, he got up immediately, he stuttered something slurred, and then blinked looking around him, as though he was surprised at his surroundings… his gaze settled on the man.

“What do you want?”

“My seat.”

“Then find it.”

“Your sitting on it.”

“Then its my seat.”

“No, its mine,” and waved the paper he was holding, obviously his ticket.

The drunk’s voice became slightly menacing now, “Go find another one, I am sleeping here, is this the only berth in the compartment?”

The man remained quite cool, “This is my seat, you go and find another one.”

“Are you going to make me?”

“No, I’ll ask the TT”

That seemed to have an effect on the man, and he stood up. Muttering under his breath, he settled his tunic, retied his dhoti, and scratched his groin. Then his eyes fell on the woman. With a lecherous leer at her, he set off down the aisle the other way. He tripped over something and fell.

He did not get up.

The woman obviously flustered by his look, gathered her shawl closer and sat down next to the window.

The man was looking for a place to put their luggage. He shoved two sacks under their berth, and was wondering where he could put a small bag. I reached under my seat, and offered him some space there by adjusting my suitcase.

With unspoken thanks, he slid the bag in.

Just then the train started. It lurched forward, almost as reluctantly as it had stopped. The man almost fell forward, but caught the window in time, steadied himself, and sat down next to the woman.

She had pushed her shawl back a little. I could make out her eyes now, they were slightly squinted, and her nose was small and pointy, with hard, badly chapped lips. Like a goblin exposed to too much cold. A streak of red sindoor, on her hair, said they were married.

The wheels returned to their normal rhythm, the coach rocked, and the lullaby continued.

Suddenly, the sun came out. The fog sank below us, and the sun streamed through my window. The beat of the wheels became deep, and echoed. We were passing over a river.

The man leaned over and pushed up the iron shutter of their window. The light streamed across her face, and she turned to face its warmth. Framed like that by gold, she looked gentle and pretty… feminine.

After a while, the man opened a bundle he had put on the seat next to them, and unrolled their breakfast. Five rotis rolled around a battered steel container, that held some potatoes cooked in gravy.

She turned away from the window, and took the roti he offered her.

The man had almost dipped his in the gravy when he looked at me. He signaled her not to eat, then turning to me, he offered me a roti, and motioned that I should join them.

“No thank you,” I said. I was polite.

They looked at me stunned.

I am sure I was the first to refuse this most simple of customs.

“… my stomach is out of order…” I muttered, lamely. They nodded in sympathy, and turned back to their food.

I looked into the new dawn, and felt its warmth wash over me.

I am glad there are places like Pipal pur, where people still don’t know it’s dangerous to accept food from strangers.

I don’t belong there. Our society is too advanced.