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Damn! When would this signal turn green??! It had been fifteen minutes already at this just-before-station signal. Which blasted train was occupying the platform ahead of us? I tapped my foot impatiently. Then I looked at my watch again. Damn. Double Damn. The second-hand seemed to take an eternity between its ticks. Aarghh! When would I get home?? I took a deep breath and tried to calm my thoughts down.
As soon as I closed my eyes, I could see the phone buzzing and ringing at my desk again. It was Ma calling. I was an aunt now! My brother and sis-in-law were the proud parents of a baby girl. And I was so happy. A smile crossed my lips as I remembered my whoops of joy, and the shocked expressions of my cabin-sharing colleagues. Why was this reserved, shy girl shouting? Why were her eyes twinkling?
I opened my eyes, and wondered if they were twinkling again. I was going to surprise my family this time, by reaching home to celebrate. And perhaps my happiness moved the signal where my anger couldn't, and the flap fell to signal "go!"; the train lurched and started moving towards the brightly-lit platform.
Ah. The pleasure of seeing your home's railway station. Even at half-past-two in the night. It's one of the constant things in your life. It calms the mind. When you're leaving home, it says, "Come back when you do! I'll be here...". And when you've come back, it reassures you, "Things are the same, more or less...". A gust of the chilly November air came and caressed my curls, as if the very air of my town was welcoming me back home. Yes! Home! And, the beginning of winter. Nice smelling sweaters, hot tea and pakodas, matar-paranthas.. ah! Winter at home. If only for three days.
The train stopped. I got down with my laptop and my carry-bag. Then I went back and fetched my suitcase. I looked around for a coolie, but there were none to be seen. Nor were there any other passengers I could see. That was surprising. I thought this station stayed awake all 24 hours. Looked like I'd have to carry my luggage myself. Oh well. I adjusted the carry bag, placed the laptop on the same shoulder, and started walking towards the foot-over bridge, dragging my suitcase behind me by the right hand. Thank goodness for wheelies!
The rumble of the wheels over the platform sounded unnaturally loud. It really was surprising. This was the time of the night when all the south-bound express trains passed through. Where were the passengers? At least the tea-coffee vendors should've been around. The station seemed deserted as if the plague had hit the city. Then I recalled how 2 to 4 in the morning are called the 'morgue hours'. Looked like everyone had gone to sleep indeed. I hoped there was an auto-rickshaw driver or two awake. There had been no seats in the other trains, and there was no way I could ask my brother to pick me up. That would've spoiled the surprise. This was my town, I hadn't a thing to fear here, even at this late hour, right?
Just as I was about to reach the slope that led up to the foot-over bridge, a shadow got up from the platform, and approached me. I shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the 'morgue hours'. Before I could think more, it had come close enough for me to recognize that it was a man. No. Not a man. A man doesn't give up on his ambition and his abilities to become a beggar, a hobo, an unwashed animal with no sense of self or dignity. I looked away and hoped he wouldn't approach me to ask for alms. I started veering to cross him a bit farther away, but he changed direction and rapidly closed the distance.
"Nahi baba, jaao, paisa nahi hai", I said automatically, trying to walk still faster.
He stood still and let me pass by. Ah, thank goodness. If he'd kept following me, there'd have been no way I could've stopped till I got outside and into a rick, and I so wanted to put down the carry bag for a while. My left shoulder was burning with pain under the load of the carry-bag and the laptop. I could rest awhile on the top of the foot-bridge.
Halfway up the slope, I realised somebody was behind me. He was behind me, keeping step. Suddenly, the flame in my shoulder ignited my mind too, and I burst out in anger, "baba bola na, paisa nahi hai.. jaao!". He stood still again, and a spectrum of emotions raced across his eyes. They flashed as if he'd got angry, then he looked down, then he looked up like a lost puppy, and to my immense surprise, said in clear tones, "May I help you with the luggage?"
I stood there shell-shocked. A courteous, english speaking hobo? The words, the tone, the demeanor, nothing matched with this man's appearance. I blurted, "Uh, gmm, what did you say?".
He started smiling now, perhaps the irony of the situation struck him too. He repeated, "May I help you with the luggage? It's too heavy for you."
I didn't know what to say. I was too confused. Beggar? Hobo? Gentleman? Thief? Courteous? Shy? Mad?
He must've sensed it, for he started laughing. A rich, full laugh that jolted me out of my senses. What was I doing here talking with him? I should move, fast! I turned away and started walking up the slope again. He followed quickly, and keeping pace with me, said, "If I had meant to rob you, I could've grabbed that Thinkpad and ran away before you could shout 'Geronimo'. Allow me, please?"
I paused. He had not said bag, nor laptop. He'd said 'Thinkpad'. He'd said 'Geronimo'. I turned around again. Wordlessly I gave him the bag and the suitcase. I had only my clothes and some gifts in those. The 'thinkpad' had my precious work. There is so much risk one can take. And so much pain in the left shoulder, too.
We started walking towards the exit. He seemed to be humming to himself as he kept pace with me. He kept looking sideways, as if he was checking me out. Then I realised he was looking down at my feet so he could match his pace with them. I looked back up to him. He was tall but gaunt. Had a thick head of hair, balding slightly in patches. Rough and matted with dirt, but you could tell they'd been jet-black once. A once-white t-shirt that carried the faded legend "Then What?" and drab gray trousers that looked two sizes short. Feet and hands dirty and blackened with mud. He hadn't taken a bath in months, obviously. The nails were black with dirt. I noticed his fingers holding my luggage, and I realized I'd have to clean it with some disinfectant afterward. Then I realized he was looking at my face as I grimaced with disgust at his grimy appearance, and I quickly turned away.
Then he burst out into song, giving words to the tune he'd been humming all this while:
O Fortuna O Fortune,
velut luna like the moon
statu variabilis, you are changeable,
semper crescis ever waxing
aut decrescis; and waning;
vita detestabilis hateful life
nunc obdurat first oppresses
et tunc curat and then soothes
ludo mentis aciem, as fancy takes it;
egestatem, poverty
potestatem and power
dissolvit ut glaciem. it melts them like ice.
Carmina Burana! The ages old Latin paean to Fortune! His song to Fortune made me wonder. What had brought this man down to this state? He didn't remember more verses though, and lapsed into humming the tune again, as we descended the slope down the exit. I could make out two rick-drivers standing expectantly and I stopped wondering about the strange being at my side and started wondering how much the drivers would charge me at this late hour.
"Where do you have to go?", he brought me out of my memories and calculations of the last fare I'd paid, during my engineering days and how much it'd have to increase to adjust for inflation and the late-night.
"Gandhi Nagar", I said.
He turned to the rick-drivers. "Memsaab ko GandhiNagar jaana hai. Kya lega?"
After a brief while of negotiation, he turned to me and said, "They're asking for ninety rupees. I'd say it was fair, considering the risk".
Risk? What risk in going to a place 4km away? I'd been prepared to give a 50-rupee note. This was nearly double that. I started to speak but he said, "Don't you see how the entire place is deserted? There was trouble in the town today". Here he laughed - a short, cynical laugh. "I haven't got any commission here, memsaab, if you're thinking that. You try if you want to". There was a curious touch to his voice. I'd heard that tone when someone who knew he was right was being doubted by others. A confident hobo, sure of himself?
I felt confused, weak, ungrateful. What were forty rupees extra anyways? Why get irritated haggling over money with these men when there was a bundle of joy awaiting me at home? I nodded assent, and he piled my luggage into one of the ricks. He moved back and I stepped in. I saw him standing there, as if he wanted to say something. Ah! Must be feeling shy in asking for money. I started reaching for my wallet to give him something, wondering if I had any loose change left. (Ok, I'm no cheapskate, but my mind does run quick, ok?)
He saw the wallet and his expression changed momentarily. His face seemed to break from confusion to sadness, no, into pathos, and then almost instantaneously he was laughing again. He waved his hand dismissively. "No, I don't need your money. Thank you memsaab!"
"Uhm, ummm", I was searching for the right words. How do I feel grateful to a member of the class I've always despised? Even if he's courteous and sings Carmina Burana?
"I was actually going to suggest something, if you don't mind. Like I said, there's been trouble today. Shall I ride with you and make sure you get home safely?", he blurted out.
Ride with me? Suddenly I didn't feel so confident of being in my own town. Was this some kind of a plan to loot me? Were the rick driver and this man in league? What troubles in town was he talking about? I looked back at him. He was hunched over expectantly near the driver, looking at me. I couldn't make out the expression in his eyes.
Oh. Why does fate keep reminding women that we're no match for men in brutality? And there lies the story and the risk of trusting men. And this was no man, he was a hobo. Or was he? I looked around desperately, as if there'd be a sign from the heavens somewhere. I saw a glow-sign for a mobile service provider -- "talk more!" it flickered in red and white. I thought of calling up my brother...
(suggestions for story-line welcome)
