The noon of 11th January combined the brooding, overcast sky of a monsoon dawn with chilly winds of a winter night. A dense fog enveloped all things more than a hundred metres away. The Intercity Express was running late by an hour. And as it happens on trains running behind time, as the destination approaches, more and more of the occupants got down every time it came to a halt. It could be a short stop at a station or a forced halt by the side to give a long-distance Superfast its right of way.
Often, the worth of a city or a town is determined by the trains that halt at its railway platforms and for how long.
But, anyway.
The Intercity Express screeched to a halt at its penultimate station - one that commanded a minute of Express and Passengers and little more than a half-hearted deceleration of the Superfasts. I got down. Like it is at countless small towns, sharing the fence with the railway station were a temple and a municipal school. The temple seemed to be more affluent of the two... for the priest's chants could be heard from a loudspeaker, put up at the feet of the temple's flag, shivering from the chilly wind.
A snack or a sweet - the food item a place claims it is "famous" for - is sold at its railway platforms. That and tea. For this one town, its claim to culinary fame was potato wada - locally known as "Aloo Banda". Five-six men carrying a basket full of piping hot potato wadas swamped the different coaches. They dexterously switched between wrapping a couple of wadas and a lone mirchi in rectangular pieces of paper, handing them over through the window grill and collecting ten-rupee notes in return. Two or three men carrying tea kettle in one hand and "Indian Railways" marked paper cups in the other flocked in between.
The signal light, vaguely seen through mist in the distance turned yellow, and a long honk overpowered the neighboring temple priest's prayers while it lasted. Passengers hurriedly moved into their coaches as the train slowly rumbled into motion. Like an afterthought, a fellow passenger munching on his wada while standing in the doorway asked a passing tea seller -
"kitne ki hai?"
"5 rupaye"
"1 cup do"
The tea seller - an old, thin man wearing a white shirt, grey pants and a grey waistcoat - got onto the steps of the moving train - it was already in motion and so, the tea seller didn't have an option. He moved in as people in the doorway stepped aside. He poured a cup and held it as the passenger fished out a 10 rupee note from his wallet.
"Aap chai lenge?" - he asked a man who occupied the adjacent seat through the journey.
Amazing, how easily camaraderie develops between fellow travelers. Fantastic topic for research.
But, anyway.
The train steadily picked up its speed. It had to - it was running late by an hour.
The fellow-traveler-turned-friend replied in the negative.
Taking the cup of tea from the seller, the man handed him a ten rupee note.
"Chhutta dijiye saab...Chhutta nai hai"
The temple priest's fading prayers were drowned out by another long honk, as if to reassure its passengers that there destination, finally, was next - and the train accelerated.
Everyone in the doorway wondered, how could the seller possibly get down now, with the train speeding and end of platform near. Their gaze fixed at the man fidgeting with his wallet, looking for coins that could add up to a value of 5 rs. The tea seller looked out of the door, at the station's name plank fixed at platform's end, which was drawing nearer by the second.
The man drew out 3 coins and handed them over. Tea seller quickly glanced at them, and slipped them inside his trousers' pockets. With the kettle in one hand, and paper cups in the other, he leaned out of the door.
The train had by now picked up considerable speed.
He paused for a brief second and leaped out onto the platform, bending ever-so-slightly as he landed and owing to momentum, ran three quick steps before coming to a steady halt. He smiled as the small crowd of us looked out of the door, amazed at how he never once looked off balance, as if this was a routine he had mastered.
Not a drop of tea spilled out of his kettle, and I doubt if the paper cups so much as creased.
All for a cup of tea... all for a sum of 5 rupees.
Therein lied an important lesson for everyone in Sales, and indeed Life.
Often, the worth of a city or a town is determined by the trains that halt at its railway platforms and for how long.
But, anyway.
The Intercity Express screeched to a halt at its penultimate station - one that commanded a minute of Express and Passengers and little more than a half-hearted deceleration of the Superfasts. I got down. Like it is at countless small towns, sharing the fence with the railway station were a temple and a municipal school. The temple seemed to be more affluent of the two... for the priest's chants could be heard from a loudspeaker, put up at the feet of the temple's flag, shivering from the chilly wind.
A snack or a sweet - the food item a place claims it is "famous" for - is sold at its railway platforms. That and tea. For this one town, its claim to culinary fame was potato wada - locally known as "Aloo Banda". Five-six men carrying a basket full of piping hot potato wadas swamped the different coaches. They dexterously switched between wrapping a couple of wadas and a lone mirchi in rectangular pieces of paper, handing them over through the window grill and collecting ten-rupee notes in return. Two or three men carrying tea kettle in one hand and "Indian Railways" marked paper cups in the other flocked in between.
The signal light, vaguely seen through mist in the distance turned yellow, and a long honk overpowered the neighboring temple priest's prayers while it lasted. Passengers hurriedly moved into their coaches as the train slowly rumbled into motion. Like an afterthought, a fellow passenger munching on his wada while standing in the doorway asked a passing tea seller -
"kitne ki hai?"
"5 rupaye"
"1 cup do"
The tea seller - an old, thin man wearing a white shirt, grey pants and a grey waistcoat - got onto the steps of the moving train - it was already in motion and so, the tea seller didn't have an option. He moved in as people in the doorway stepped aside. He poured a cup and held it as the passenger fished out a 10 rupee note from his wallet.
"Aap chai lenge?" - he asked a man who occupied the adjacent seat through the journey.
Amazing, how easily camaraderie develops between fellow travelers. Fantastic topic for research.
But, anyway.
The train steadily picked up its speed. It had to - it was running late by an hour.
The fellow-traveler-turned-friend replied in the negative.
Taking the cup of tea from the seller, the man handed him a ten rupee note.
"Chhutta dijiye saab...Chhutta nai hai"
The temple priest's fading prayers were drowned out by another long honk, as if to reassure its passengers that there destination, finally, was next - and the train accelerated.
Everyone in the doorway wondered, how could the seller possibly get down now, with the train speeding and end of platform near. Their gaze fixed at the man fidgeting with his wallet, looking for coins that could add up to a value of 5 rs. The tea seller looked out of the door, at the station's name plank fixed at platform's end, which was drawing nearer by the second.
The man drew out 3 coins and handed them over. Tea seller quickly glanced at them, and slipped them inside his trousers' pockets. With the kettle in one hand, and paper cups in the other, he leaned out of the door.
The train had by now picked up considerable speed.
He paused for a brief second and leaped out onto the platform, bending ever-so-slightly as he landed and owing to momentum, ran three quick steps before coming to a steady halt. He smiled as the small crowd of us looked out of the door, amazed at how he never once looked off balance, as if this was a routine he had mastered.
Not a drop of tea spilled out of his kettle, and I doubt if the paper cups so much as creased.
All for a cup of tea... all for a sum of 5 rupees.
Therein lied an important lesson for everyone in Sales, and indeed Life.
