Train journeys, in a way, are a lot like monsoon rains. Sitting cozy in your
home, with a cup of tea, rains are a treat to the senses. But out there, on the
street, rains are puddles and muck, traffic jams and wet socks. So it is with
train journeys - with a reserved ticket, the journey is one to cherish; sipping
tea at different stations, reading a new book, listening to life stories of
fellow passengers, sleeping and reminiscing about times gone by. But in absence of a reservation,
left at the mercy of fate, even a three hour excursion could be a nightmare -
unless, unless, you know the tricks of the trade, unless you learn your lessons from the likes of Masterji...
Indian Railways is so ubiquitous, so closely intertwined with our day to day
existence that we often miss the bigger picture. The veritable lifeline of
India transports people for as little as 29 paise per kilometer and is an
enormous network of over 12000 trains crisscrossing the vast and diverse
topography of the country every day. If India were a human body, Indian
Railways would be the complex network of veins and arteries mobilizing
lifeblood to and from the vital corners of the anatomy, keeping the body alive
and thriving; and of this anatomy, a critical organ is Bihar. Little wonder they call it the Hindi Heartland.
Now for trains traveling to and through Bihar, the demand perennially exceeds
supply, and by a huge margin. This deficit translates into scores of people
boarding those long distance trains without a berth reserved against their
name. The result is an exercise that is terrifying and thrilling in equal
measure, fraught with uncertainties, and yet holding the promise of hope, an
exercise that demands shrewd application of the mind, careful craft of
language, an ability to empathize and judge, foresee the future and comprehend
the present, devise the strategy and adapt the tactics - an exercise so subtle,
and so essentially human - it is almost a form of art, the art of traveling
ticket-less. And like all worthy forms of art, the art of traveling ticket-less
requires dogged practice and hours of practical experience to master, and given
a chance, most would prefer not to be its student.
In Rohinton Mistry's epic novel A Fine Balance, Vasantrao Valmik, a lawyer
turned proofreader turned morcha producer turned lawyer again (thus completing
the proverbial circle) waxes eloquent about hope. 'There is always hope', he
says, 'hope enough to balance out the despair'. On the railway platform, a ray
of hope to restore the fine balance shines in the form of the ticket examiner
on duty, who with his discretionary powers to hand out unoccupied berths
attracts a buzzing swarm of despairing passengers around him, jostling with one
another for his attention and his kindness. Left among the cacophonous coterie
of tea vendors and book sellers, coolies and sweepers, beggars and the usual
melee of passengers, the TTE's attempts to allocate berths with a semblance of
order turn out to be futile - discarded like the flotsam of plastic bottles and
rotting eatables on the tracks.
Standing in a queue, patiently awaiting
our turn - these qualities elude us Indians. We love the beauty of settling
matters through pushing and shoving, jostling and shouting; we are firm
believers in the magical powers of middlemen, the sweet influence of money, the
strength of contacts at important places. Not at the roadside
chaat shops
though. Here, we are at our civilized best, silently observing the ambidextrous
chaat waala digging into the different ingredients spread in a semicircle around him,
mixing and tossing the contents, drowning them in green and red chutneys as the
sights and smells tantalize our palates, stoke our appetite. We patiently wait
for that great benefactor of womankind, the chaat waala, to serve our food. No
threats are issued, no bribes offered; just polite requests -
dahi thoda
extra daalna bhaiya; Jain sev puri me teekha zyada rahega na...
If there is a sight to behold on Indian roads, it is this. The otherwise
cantankerous Indians, ready to detonate at the slightest provocation, honking
away on roads and sulking away through queues, conducting their affairs with so
much poise and equanimity at the road side
chaat shop. And though, the railway
platform is a veritable
bhel puri of human civilization, it is no
chaat shop governed by
an imperious
chaat waala. And so, the bid to reserve a berth turns into a mini
free-for-all.
'Arey saahab! Dadaji ko Tata Memorial le jaa rahe hai dikhaane ke liye.
Ek seat bas dilva dijiye saahab'
'Namaste sir! Panditji mobile kiye honge aapko, humare acche dost hai.
Itarsi tak ka intazaam ho jaayega toh badhiya rahega'.
'Sir do Muzaffarpur. Urgent hai sir'
The TTE, pulled and prodded from all sides, checks the sheaf of dot matrix
printed papers in his hand, scrutinizing the neat records in red and blue ink
made by his predecessors to search for any permutation and combination of an
empty berth that fits with the passenger's travel plans. More often than not,
it doesn't, and the TTE grimly announces the unavailability to the wary group
surrounding him.
'Sir, ek...bas ek ticket kara dijiye sir'
'Ab kya batayein, LTT tak poori pack hai gaadi'
This morning though, different scenes played out at platform number 3 of
Anand Vihar Terminus, as the North East express readied itself for its 45 hour
journey to Guwahati. A visibly old TTE, wearing a fading black overcoat that
betrayed his long years in the Railways, smiled and nodded at the passengers
requesting for a reservation. Frowning from over his glasses at numbers a bit
too tiny for his old eyes, he made notes in a small, rectangular book.
'Kahaan jaayenge, bata rahe the?'
'Ji, Buxar, Saahab'
'Ah, Buxar...Hmm'. Tucking the small, rectangular book under his armpit,
the TTE reached for another fraying little book in his pocket, and moved the
glasses over his nose to adjust to the new font.
'Buxar Na?’ he studied
a matrix matching distances to costs.
'Ji saahab, bas 12-13 ghante ka safar hai', the passenger smiled at the
people encircling the TTE. Anxious for their turn, they didn't acknowledge his
rhetoric and looked on.
'Buxar ka hoga, 210 rupya. Do ticket ka 420'
'Ji sir, dhanyawaad sir', the passenger collected his change and
folded hands one more time, a final note of gratitude and turned to collect his
trunk. Seconds later, as the waiting folk threw their general tickets into the
old TTE's face, he returned.
'Par saahab, aapne berth number toh likha nahi'
'Berth number sabko andar aa ke denge. Abhi jaa kar baith jaaye', the
TTE declared, loudly enough to ward off similar queries from those waiting to
receive his benevolence.
The struggle resumed after the brief, undesired pause.
'Sir, Guwahati ke
liye 3'. 'Saahab, saahab! Siliguri ke liye 4 ticket'
Irked, the TTE took a few steps back, narrowly missing a mongrel lying on
the platform. Terrified, it limped away to safety.
'Arre bhai, sabko ticket milega. Kaahe pareshaan ho rahe hai', the TTE
trembled from the effort of bringing order to the burgeoning lot of passengers
around him.
The usual drill of copying ticket numbers, matching the destination to costs
from the fare book while the ticket book rests under his armpit, patting and
stroking the wad of notes in his shirt pocket, these familiar movements calmed
him down, and he returned to his smiling, nodding, welcoming self.
We were among the last few to receive the
parchi from him. It all
seemed a bit strange. The TTE hadn't scribbled berth numbers on anyone's
receipts, promising to assign once he had a precise inventory of vacant berths
on the moving train. How did he then issue all those receipts, if he didn't
know the exact number? In the immediate, anxious need to become recipients of
those white receipts, reason took a back seat. Nonetheless, with six reserved
seats and receipts for two, we occupied the 1-8 section of S4 coach,
confidently shoving our luggage under seats and blanketing the upper berths
with bag-packs, and occupying the two available charging slots with our phones. As
we went about laying siege to the area, two young boys of about 16-17 and a
middle-aged man dressed in a red checked shirt with black trousers and chappals
looked on. In a train traveling to and through Bihar, especially one where an
old TTE hands out slips like coaching class pamphlets at a traffic signal,
everyone is suspect for boarding the sleeper class without reservation, and
rightfully so. The trick then is to never let the others doubt that you too are
on board without a reservation. The trick is to behave as if you own the space.
Acquiring the mobile charging points, staking claim to all available luggage
area, outraging about torn seat covers and dirty floors, muttering the age-old cliché
while shaking your head,
'saala sleeper ko general dibba bana diya hai!'
- all constitute a credible performance. You are sulking, surely you must have
a reservation?
The two boys, carrying shoulder bags with 'Leveis' and 'Adibas' stickers on
them, climbed to the upper berths and perched on the corners, each resting his
legs on the opposite berth. Their height and frame allowed them to sit in the
little space without any major inconvenience - arguably a sweet spot for the
ticket-less, the area is of little importance to the ticket holders for most of
the day time. The middle-aged man, Masterji, meanwhile settled at the corner of
the side lower berth, his feet out towards the aisle, arms folded across the
chest, passively looking out of the window on the opposite side. Ah, the
quintessential let-me-sit-here-I-am-not-causing-you-any-inconvenience style. So
our Masterji here is a seasoned campaigner, a well-traveled man. Not the
well-traveled as defined these modern days. He didn't hold important
architectural monuments by their tips, nor did he scribble his name in sand at
beaches. But he knew his way about trains.
Masterji diverted his
attention from the window to our neighbors, a joint Bengali family, the female
members of which had begun preparations for
bhel puri, or
jhaal muri as they'd
call it, on an unprecedented scale. The men, now in vests with their shirts
hung away on the hook just below the chain, emptied kilos upon kilos of puffed
rice onto a white cloth held at both ends by two women. Someone chopped onions
and green chillies, someone else busied themselves in hunting down little black
pebbles lounging in the puffed rice.
Masterji smiled. 'Never a dearth of new things to see on a train', he
remarked, discreetly. The train departed twenty minutes after its scheduled
time. 'This train has a most consistent track record of being late' Masterji
explained, 'they should change its name from North East express - everyone
ignores it'. The sarcasm was lost on the two boys, but like us, they were
impressed with Masterji's knowledge.
'What time does the train arrive at Katihar, sir?’ one of the boys asked.
'Oh, the two of you are going to Katihar, is it? The train is supposed to
reach Katihar at 04:00 AM. But since a lot of these people', his right hand
taking in the coach in its sweep, 'are traveling to Katihar, the train tries to
ensure you all get a good night's sleep. It is unlikely we reach Katihar before
6:30 7 tomorrow'. There might not be the smallest of spaces to sit, but it felt
good to know the train cared so much for their well-being. The boys nodded
enthusiastically.
Delivering his words of wisdom, Masterji looked at everyone with a
half-smile, making sure everyone is part of his audience. Over the next one
hour, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the ticket holders, he
alternated between playing an active participant and passive spectator to our
conversation, laughing at the little jokes, belting out rhetoric - 'it is like
that only, what can we do? Governments come and go, but Railways will always be
riddled with these problems'. Successful ticket-less travels are built on the
foundation of easy camaraderie with the neighbors, Masterji understood this
well enough.
An hour later, the train had just crossed Ghaziabad, when a harried looking
husband and wife dropped their luggage of six bags, paused to catch their
breath and inquired - 'is this the S4 coach?’ Masterji nodded. 'Oh, thank God'
- the wife crashed on the side berth and the husband got to the tall task of
fixing their six bags.
We Indians consider it blasphemous to travel without
excess luggage, more so in trains because it is free, and of what purpose is
all the floor space if not to stock our bags and trunks and sacks? 'Traveling
light' is a concept as foreign to us as Sonia Gandhi to Subramaniam Swamy. Some time ago, I happened
to travel to a tourist destination wildly popular with Gujjus on an
agency-managed tour. One of the families in the group carried around a tall bag
loaded with a smorgasbord of Gujju snacks and
namkeen. Even on the last day of
the tour, the lady would bury her hands in the bag and come out with a yet
unopened packet of
chakris or
puris and coax those around her. 'Arre take a
little, no. See how it tastes. Nothing doing, little little everyone must
take'. Someone exclaimed 'Ben! So much food you are carrying!’ True, it was
simply outrageous, to travel with an entire bag full of snacks on a tour where
breakfast AND lunch AND dinner were arranged for by the agency.
'
Arre, this is nothing. For our train from A'bad, I packed full bottles of
chaas and tumblers of
dahi and
moong daal and boiled
chana and chopped tomatoes
and salted potatoes. Not onions, though, they raise a stink. What to do? These pantry
car people make egg dishes in the same kitchen. We disposed all the poly-bags
and bottles at the station...'
To this day, I shudder to think of the quantities they would carry along for
a 'no-meals' tour plan.
Presently though, abrupt arrival of the rightful occupants of side berths completely altered
the narrative – our bluff was called out – we meekly renounced the place and
populated our reserved seats. An expression of disappointment, at having wasted
an hour’s worth of efforts wooing the wrong targets, lingered on Masterji’s
face. The game had changed, and changed for the worse. As any experienced
Railways traveler will tell you, breaking into a group of young boys, finding a
little space to sit through the day and half a berth for the night, is perhaps
the easiest – join the game of cards and teach them a new trick or two, discuss
cricket and use cricketing analogies in the conversation – and you are more or
less set for a reasonably comfortable ticketless journey. But to occupy and
defend your unreserved territory in the company of a married couple, now that
calls for the craft of a veteran. Masterji thought he would be bowling to Umesh
Yadav, but back in the pavilion, Virat Kohli said ‘fuck the night-watchman’ and
stepped out to the crease. He soon wiped away the creases on his forehead, and
smiled gregariously at his new neighbors. ‘These rascals, they don’t even label
the coaches properly. So much trouble it causes to common people like us’.
The husband nodded, too exhausted from the toil of carrying the bags around
through clogged coaches to speak. The wife though promptly summoned the energy
to outrage from her vast captive reserves – ‘Tell me about it! So much trouble they
have caused us. We walked almost a damn kilometer! And with so much luggage…’ –
she spread her arms wide, indicating the bags above and below.
‘Yes sister, very bad thing to happen’ – muttered Masterji with empathy.
He had just bowled a maiden first over to Virat Kohli, with a couple of
deliveries whistling dangerously past his off stump, having broken ice with the
lady. In matters as delicate as these, it is the woman’s word that is final and
binding.
Passengers milled around the coaches, searching for vacant berths that were
not to be found. There were no traces of the old TTE either. The whole
reservation slip thing was a scam. No one turned to examine the tickets. There
were far too many people in the sleeper coaches to discharge such formalities.
Those without the reservation slip crouched in the doorways, cramming near the
lavatory on newspapers and plastic sheets. Soon enough, as someone battling and
trundling through the crowds reached the WC and opened its door, an immensely
foul stench of human waste wafted through the coach. The crowds at the door
grew and the men in vests from our neighboring Bengali family, with half-smoked cigarettes now tucked behind their ears, yelled at them for blocking their righteous route to
relief, and shouted threats of calling the Railway Police. The poor folk at the
door stared back blankly, one of them continued to eat from her oily
Rail Aahar box. The train, meanwhile, lost its sense
of time on its way through eastern UP, now running behind schedule by a few
hours.
Oblivious to the happenings, Masterji continued to build camaraderie with
the couple brick by steady brick, engaging them in the time honored passenger
platitudes.
‘Where are you heading to?’
‘Oh, Siliguri? Such a lovely place. Long ago, our family spent Pujo holidays in
Darjeeling and we spent some time in Siliguri. People were so nice, and the
city, clean and green. Wonder if it is the same now. Like people, places change
with time…’
A key element of Masterji’s game, with the benefit of hindsight, appears to be his
ability to strike a balance between coming across as overbearing and
intrusive through too much conversation and on the other hand, keeping mum and
appearing rude and insensitive. In between bits and pieces here and there, he
silently looked out of the opposite window to let the couple converse between
themselves – appearing aloof, and yet listening intently, deducing,
calculating, understanding his subjects, understanding their nature. The
importance of this can’t be overstated – it would guide his further plan of action.
Carrying sweets for the second cousin’s
old in-laws in Kalimpong as well? Great. Thoughtful bunch, this couple. Good
for me.
While the couple prepared for lunch, Masterji left them to eat in peace and climbed
the upper berth for an hour long nap, careful not to rest his head or legs on
their bag. An assured way to get thrown away, using a fellow passenger’s
luggage as a pillow. But letting it be and crouching in the even more limited
space of a side upper berth, now that betrays sensitivity, it helps earn
brownie points with your benefactors.
His experience of trains must have sharpened Masterji’s clairvoyance, for he
precisely anticipated when the wife would like to retire for an afternoon
siesta. He got down before being told to and paid a visit to the WC. By the
time he returned, the wife was asleep on the upper berth. Masterji took his
place at the corner of the berth, this time with his feet folded on the seat
and facing the husband. Now there being no risk of boring the woman, and
thereby inviting her ire, with talk of cricket and politics, Masterji asked for
the husband’s forecast on the upcoming elections in West Bengal and Assam. He
nodded and repeated the husband’s words as the latter finished a sentence, as
if the husband had spoken something profound. He also countered him here and
there, at the harmless places, so as to not come across as a sycophantic
listener. In fact, the little objections delighted the husband all the more,
for he could defend and justify his points.
‘No, but you see, anti-incumbency works when there are two or more equal
opponents. Who’s there in Bengal? The Left? Those jokers have sold what has
remained of their souls to Rahul Gandhi. See, Didi controls the
goondas in
Bengal, and those who control the goondas control the electorate’.
‘Those who control the
goondas control the electorate. So true,
bhai. So
very true’ But I know the word on the streets of Guwahati. BJP it will be in
Assam’.
Unbeknownst to the husband, immersed in shelling out his long suppressed insights
and observations to such a fine listener, Masterji stretched out his legs in
front of him, as a legitimate occupant of the space would. As time passed, the
lunch and the heat and the contentment of enlightening a fellow human being
made the husband sleepy. He stretched out his legs in the wedge between
Masterji and the wall. It took a while for the husband’s sleep to overcome
constrained discomfort of his legs, Masterji though dozed off right after lying
down.
The boys continued to dangle from little corners at the edge of middle and upper berths, changing posture every now and then to figure out the one most comfortable. They looked down on Masterji snoring away on the husband's berth in part amazement, part admiration and mostly envy. Afternoon rattle-tattled towards evening and the train left Uttar Pradesh behind at Mughal Sarai junction, for a long journey through Bihar that will go well past sunrise tomorrow morning. The couple now sat facing each other, and Masterji at his customary corner. The gloom of the evening seemed to have taken a toll on the couple's conversation, rendering it grim and unsmiling. They didn't offer tea to Masterji. Nor did they share from the
Sundarta Sarees polybag that comprised their evening snack. The prospect of night emulating afternoon's fortune appeared to be increasingly bleak. He couldn't move from his place now of course. There was too little left till bed time to build new bonds. And anyway, tired and wary of the congested mess that the train had become, most passengers were now shooing away requests to 'adjust'.
Politics had made Masterji's afternoon. Cricket presented him the opportunity to rescue the night.
After ignoring the existence of our group since morning, Masterji once again began to take interest in our attempts to follow the crucial India Australia encounter of ICC World T20. The network, as train moved through Bihar, being too weak to stream live video, we settled on following live updates on the Cricbuzz app. One of us announced any important update for the benefit of those who obviously couldn't read the small text on a mobile screen. Ignored by the couple, Masterji absorbed himself in the goings on of the game, commenting and sharing his thoughts like a pundit - nodding at the boys to include them in conversation. From their areal vantage points, they concurred and interjected every now and then.
Intermittently, our Bengali friend next door, in a blue vest worn as if to show his support for Team India, arrived to inquire after the game. He was like one of those many cricket fans who never bother themselves with ball by ball scores and events, who gloss over the finer details and are only interested in the bigger picture. The only thing that mattered is the match follow the trail they desired.
In Mohali, India's chase coughed and sneezed with an early fall of wickets and a mounting required run rate. It had come down to Virat Kohli and MS Dhoni to produce yet another match winning partnership. Darkness descended over the train as most retired for an early slumber. In our dimly lit corner, the lag in Cricbuzz updates generously added to the building tension. Nothing more painful than a cliffhanger of a game, an India Australia decider at that, left at the whims and fancies of patchy mobile internet, unfolding mercilessly slowly. The mood in our far off stand vacillated between gloom and hope. Even our blue vested Bengali friend had now taken a seat in front of the mobile, smoking away his anxiety. Eventually, the mood turned into euphoria as a Cricbuzz update announced the match winning four over long on by, who else, but MS Dhoni. Everyone roared and shook hands.
'Mark my words. One day, Virat Kohli will surpass Sachin Tendulkar', Masterji paused to look at the husband in the eye 'for he also has leadership qualities of Saurav Ganguly'.
The husband's face lit up. He beamed and nodded.
Relieved that we will be playing the semis, all of us prepared for bed. The crowd seemed to have swelled as the train continued on its delayed journey through Bihar. Some crouched near the toilet doors, others spread themselves in aisles, often without the luxury of newspapers and plastic sheets. In black darkness of the night, human bodies lying still, like discarded logs of wood, in total apathy to the mess, cut a macabre picture. The boys renounced upper berths that the fortuitous cricket match had accorded them and returned to the corners. A long night awaited before sunrise ferried the train to Katihar, to their home.
Loud snores from down below pulled the chain on their train of thought.
It was Masterji.
