A Day In His Life

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.