At half past 3 in the morning, he woke up with a start,
waking up from a vague nightmare; the kind that subtly haunts the fragile
consciousness of a sleepy mind, and yet refuses to unfold, and reach completion.
He sat up, bending low to avoid hitting the berth above, and looked out of the
window. It was pitch dark outside. With great difficulty, he could make out the
time on his tattered watch.
3:35, at 3:35, the Avadh
Express should be anywhere between Shikohabad and Firozabad, he thought to
himself.
His fellow workers were fast asleep, some snoring loud
enough to drown the train’s noise in the night.
He smiled. Their berths were hard and narrow, the heat from
adjoining pantry car intense, and the air thick with the smoke of cooking,
frying, heating and reheating: a cycle that goes on for 18 hours every day. But
the sheer exhaustion of a long day’s toil lulled them to sound sleep, the harsh
heat and lack of comfort notwithstanding.
He lied down on his berth. An hour remained before they
would have to wake up and start preparing for breakfast. Trying hard to recall
the images of the bad dream, somewhere between arranging them in order and
making sense of them, he fell asleep…
04:30 AM
The day had begun in the pantry car. Stocks for the day were
loaded at Agra Fort station, and all men got down to their respective tasks. He
sat down to begin his, with a huge vessel in front of him. The vessel had 10
kgs of boiled potatoes. He had an hour to peel the skin off each one of them.
Taking a potato in his left hand, he dug nails of his right hand, left unkempt
to facilitate this task, into the potato skin, and peeled it off in one stroke.
A part of the potato skin still remained. He didn't bother.
Sharp at 5:30, one of the cooks came over to him. Many
potatoes were yet to be peeled. The cook didn't bother. Lifting the vessel with
potato skins, he got up, walked up the window, opened it and emptied the vessel
outside.
The early morning sky was beautiful and cool, soothing wind
came gushing in. He forced the window shut.
At around 6, he received a basket full of piping hot batata vadas and samosas, with
cut green chillies wrapped in paper, and chutney in a plastic bag. With the
basket supported on a round bun of cloth on his head, he left for the eleven
sleeper coaches – his assigned territory.
“Naashta,Naashta,
Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta
naashta naashta”
Just like every day, the sleeper coaches
were an explosion of people. There were many more passengers than the number of
berths. On most side upper and side lower berths, two people slept with their
head and feet in opposite directions. Many were sleeping on a thin sheet of
cloth, or one engineered from newspapers, on the floor in between the berths.
There’s always space
in the sleeper and general class: space to stand, space to crouch, space to
sit, space to sleep… there’s always space for one more.
“Naashta,Naashta,
Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta
naashta naashta”
23 years of working in the catering services of Indian
Railways, 23 years of continuously walking to and fro between coaches on a moving train, and 23
years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head, day in and day out, had rendered his speech
utterly listless and indifferent. So when he spoke, his voice sounded empty and
mechanical. There were no modulations, and yet it boomed in the coach. He could be nearby, but it seemed his words
were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old
sound players.
Woken up by his voice, one of the passengers sleeping on the
upper berth stretched his legs, hitting him on the face. The passenger went
back to sleep. He kept walking ahead at his usual speed.
“Naashta,Naashta,
Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta
naashta naashta”
8:30 AM
The train was up and awake. He continued on his rounds
through the coaches and back to the pantry car. Each time, the basket would be
taken for reheating and a reheated one returned. Like it always did at this
time of the morning, passengers haggled with him, accusing the batata wadas and
samosas were not “garam” enough.
There were different people on every journey and on a given
journey, 11 coaches of different people. Yet the same exchange repeated again
and again.
A passenger would stop
him.
He stopped.
The passenger would ask for a plate of samosas or batata
wadas – “garam hai?”
He nodded.
Samosas and batata wadas
were handed over, money taken.
The passenger would touch the vada and accuse “garam nai
hai!”
“Waapas kar dijiye”
Depending upon just how hungry the passenger would be,
batata wadas and samosas would be consumed or returned to their place in the
basket.
No “aap kha kar toh dekhiye” or “ekdum fresh hai”. No
cajoling or prodding. No giving a sorry smile. He walked towards the next
coach.
“Naashta,Naashta,
Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta
naashta naashta”
The day progressed. In the pantry car, preparation for
breakfast mode changed to preparation for lunch mode. For him, the peeling of
boiled potatoes changed to wrapping rotis and sabzi in plastic packets. In his
basket, the batata wadas and samosas were replaced by roti and sabzi packets.
12 pm onwards, he started his rounds of the eleven sleeper
coaches, with the basket supported on a round bun of cloth on his head. His quirky
voice booming through the coach – “kha
lo sabzi roti ka garam khana…
kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana” – his monotone pausing only while handing
over the lunch packs to and receiving money from the passengers.
He continued his rounds till 2 pm.
The preparation for lunch mode gave way to preparation of
evening snacks mode. He was again given a huge vessel full of boiled potatoes
to peel, and again he walked through the coaches with batata wadas and samosas
on his head. The morning monotone “Naashta,Naashta,
Naashta, Naashta.. Batata Vada,Samosa.. Boliye garma garam naashta naashta
naashta naashta” switched back on.
The dusk hour approached, and pantry car started making its
preparations for the final meal of the day. For him, yet again, as if the day
was set on repeat mode, the peeling of potatoes changed to wrapping rotis and
sabzi in plastic packets. Like a robot, he set for the coaches, holding the
basket over his head with one hand, the other in shirt pocket specially stitched
near the lower half of his shirt to hold money.
He kept walking from one coach to another, voice still the
same, gait still the same. The words too
repeated again and again.
“kha lo sabzi
roti ka garam khana… kha lo sabzi roti
ka garam khana”
11 PM
The train had gone back to sleep. In the pantry car too, men
hurriedly cleaned up, eager to go their berths, eager to end the day.
He silently walked to the kitchen window, opened it and threw
out the left over batata vadas, samosas, roti and sabzi packets on to the
railway tracks.
It was time to sleep.
If only I could sleep.
