The Art of Traveling Ticketless

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. 

'Yes, the new Pandya guy is up and running'

'No, but as long as we have Dhoni, we have hope'

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.

What a masterstroke, to invoke Ganguly and win over a cricket loving Bong. 

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.   

Songs on the Road

What is the mark of a good driver? How do you gauge the skill of a driver you are meeting for the first time? Well, for starters, you could ask him how long he has been driving. And he will give you an answer you wish to hear - saat aanth saal ho gaye saab. Of course, your face will betray the disbelief. Such a young looking man and seven eight years behind the wheel already? And he will continue with the explanation - 15 saal ke the tab se hi gaadi chala rahe hai. At this point, you may snigger at how everything goes in India, bribe the RTO guys or fake your date of birth in the age proof. When it comes to gaming the system, there is never a dearth of options, you'd say sagely, to show that you too are familiar with the ways of the world.

What other signs could you look for? Oh yes, the driver's age, the grey in his hair, search for the creases and wrinkles on his face. But it would be foolish to rely on this metric. After all, the driver could have begun driving quite late in his life, in all probability a few weeks ago and you'd never know. It is a profession with hardly any entry barriers, is driving. Somewhere a factory closes down, and surely there are a few to take to driving to earn their livelihood. 

What else, state of the car? Probably, a well-worn car speaks of the many hours spent on the road. But again, this parameter is far from reliable. In all likelihood, the driver could have rented this car or bought it second-hand, or he may just be driving one of his seth's old vehicles. 

So coming back, how do you know that you are in safe, experienced hands?

Well yes, the facility with which the driver opens the front door, leans out of the car while speeding at 60 km/hr, spits out a mouthful of paan gutka and returns to the wheel closing the door behind him - the sheer elegance of this seemingly complex set of movements corroborates his skill on the road. An experienced driver performs this task like an artist, unhurried and easy - never once losing control of the vehicle while emptying his mouth of its staple contents. However, thankfully, there is an answer to the above question that is far more credible and comprehensive.

The answer lies in the songs.

Any driver worth his salt travels with a long, many hours long, playlist of songs. Not the Yo Yo Honey Singh crap they blast in expensive nightclubs and lavish weddings. Or the latest Bollywood garbage playing out on radio channels. But songs of eternal love, of great longing, songs of painful separation, of soul-shattering betrayal. Songs sung by the man who rules the hearts of those who spend a lifetime on the road - songs sung by Kumar Sanu. Sanu Sahab's voice is the fuel that propels the driver. Sanu Sahab's voice is a balmy afternoon of a cold, wintry day; a savior against the tyranny of potholed roads, the impossible traffic, the pungent diesel fumes, and the often untoward passengers.

Navigating the same old roads, same old twists and turns, gliding past the same old milestones, the music player goes:

pardesi mere yaara...laut ke aana, mujhe yaad rakhna kahin bhool na jaana...

And Sanu Sahab's emotional rendition strikes a poignant chord with the driver, transports him back in time to the memories of his youth, his home in a village by the river and of the beloved - the pardesi - who never returned. He may never have had a lover and a tragic love story. But that is beside the point. The beauty of Sanu Sahab's voice is it craftily blurs the difference between reality and make believe.

Then President of India acknowledging Sanu Sahab's timeless contribution with a Padma Shri
Courtesy: Deccan Chronicle

As the vehicle speeds forward,  Sanu Sahab is swift to take us further back in time, from the bitter times of separation to the happy, cheerful days of infatuation and courtship.

Wooing the girl:

O laal dupatte waali tera naam toh bata, O kaale kurte waali tera naam toh bata...tera naam toh bata, tera naam toh bataa!

The days filled with youthful uncertainties:

Pehli pehli baar mohabbat ki hai...Pehli pehli baar mohabbat ki hai, kuch na samajh me aaye me kya karu. Pehli pehli baar shararat ki hai, kuch na samajh me aaye me kya karu...

And those sleepless nights:

O meri neendein churaane wale tera, shukriya! O mera chayn churaane wale tera, shukriya! Dard nahi tha jab seene ka, khaak mazaa tha jeene ka... O saari raat jagaane wale tera, shukriya...

Then arrives the monsoon:

Barsaat ke din aaye, mulaqaat ke din aaye... hum soch me the jinke, us raat ke din aaye...

Down to the wedding days:

Tere ghar aaya, main aaya tujhko lene...Dil ke badle me dil ka nazaraana dene...meri har dhadkan kya bole hai sun sun sun sun...

And more often than not, you happen to miss the bus. So the invaluable exhortation from Sanu Sahab:

Kisi se tum pyaar karo, toh fir izhaar karo... kahin na fir der na ho jaaye, kahin na fir der na ho jaaye...

Though, like life, the playlist invariably veers towards songs of pain and anguish. 

Jiye toh jiye kaise, haaye, bin aapke... Lagta nahi kahin dil, bin aapke...

Or the one that resonates too strongly and hits right below the belt:

Tu pyaar hai kisi aur ka, tujhe chahta koi aur hai... Tu pasand hai kisi aur ki, tujhe maangta koi aur hai... Tu nazar me hai kisi aur ki, tujhe dekhta koi aur hai...


A man listening to Kumar Sanu's songs on the road sees his life's story flash before his eyes. There is scarcely any hope, any despair, any emotion and any experience that his vast body of work fails to encompass. Sanu Sahab is that trusted friend, the humraahi who unfailingly accompanies thousands of men on their solitary journeys.

So the next time you are traveling, and are unsure of your driver's skills, turn up the system's volume; if it is Sanu Sahab's vocal cords serenading you from the speakers, sit back for a memorable time - you are in the hands of a seasoned campaigner - and hum along the quintessential road song:

  

Raah me unse...mulaqat ho gayi... Raah me unse... mulaqat ho gayi... Jis se darte the, wohi baat ho gayi!

 

The Free Basics that Matter

This isn't one of the many posts arguing for or against Free Basics from Facebook. There is, in fact, a threat far, far bigger than Facebook violating Net Neutrality and all that jazz. And that, is Facebook turning into a mass archive of wedding albums and honeymoon itineraries.

This post is a not so exhaustive list of the Free Basics that every Indian feels entitled to:

Courtesy: The Guardian

1. Masala Puri - no questions asked
   
2. Singh - chana at bars
   
3. Space for 13 tonnes of luggage in trains
   
4. Take home towel and personal care kits from hotel rooms
   
5. Extra supaari at Paan shops
   
6. Take away saunf in tissue papers at restaurants
   
7. On demand, extra pyaaz with Punjabi food
   
8. Water, electricity, WiFi, daily entertainment and long, long radio and TV ads in areas (mis) governed by Arvind Kejriwal
   
9. Unrestricted access to public roads for religious and/or wedding processions
   
10. One half of the road to park our SUVs while we have a grilled sandwich and special chai in this popular roadside joint
    
11. Dhanya - mirch top-up from vegetable vendors
    
12. Blazer, tie and lapel pin upon admission in B schools
    
13. Discounts/cashbacks on *any* service availed online or via a mobile app
    
14. Also bargains on *anything* availed from poor roadside vendors while a 160 Rs. Vada Pav at PVR is, of course, cool
    
15. Spit, pee and throw garbage anywhere, anytime - because we pay taxes

And finally, the most important of all - one that beats even Masala Puri by a huge margin:

    16. Unconditional right to cause inconvenience to others so long as it suits us

Large multi national corporations, tech giants, the Indian industry and government entities may collude all they like - breach fair competition principles, create monopolistic markets and piss off all sorts of activists. So long as the sacrosanctness of these 'free basics' is upheld, we'll be fine.

Do you have suggestions that could be added to this list? Please feel free to write to TRAI.

Facebook Timeline of a B-schooler

Aravind Adiga in his brilliant second novel 'Last Man in Tower' writes that a dustbin tells the story of a household; its contents emptied every morning reveal the preceding day's activities. Years of technology, internet penetration and self-aggrandizement later, Facebook timeline is the modern day's dustbin.

With the exception of Subramanium Swamy, no one's Facebook TL follows a more predictable pattern than a B-schooler's - that supreme dispenser of gyaan, that inexhaustible reservoir of fundas, or as many a B-school's websites say, perhaps sardonically, 'thought leader of tomorrow'.

98.93
97.36

99.09

A blue-blooded B-schooler's facebook glory begins long before the academic year. Sometime in January, on a cold midnight, as the world sleeps, engineers and TCS-Infy coders awake to life and freedom. The numbers above would appear meaningless to an untrained eye. But to the largely discerning crowd, the message implicit in three numbers is loud and clear, sparking a torrent of congratulatory messages. In between, the B-schooler rues 'VA is a bitch', presents a detailed track record of mock scores, and concludes - 'Fuck Normalization!' 

<Enter B-school's acronym> it is.

Sometime in April-May, the public declaration is made. There'll be creativity as well; clever use of the school's name and symbols.

'Time to live life XL size!'

'Joka calling :)'

And the indigenous ivy-league, hallowed old IIMs do not warrant much deliberation.

'Finally, B'.

Of late, with the proliferation of awards and award shows, a new trend seems to be emerging. Facebook isn't just the new dustbin. Facebook is the new podium to deliver elaborate thank-you speeches. As the coveted call letter reaches the shores of mail inbox after a long and arduous journey in the seas of entrance exams, boisterous GDs and grueling PIs, the occasion calls for a 200 word thank you speech. The almost-there B schooler thanks his parents, friends, faculty at the coaching centre, benign normalization and fate. The religious amongst them also thank God, 'above all'.

First year begins. Education and location tabs of facebook profile are duly updated. The cover pic changes to a DSLR clicked image of red-brick buildings, surrounded by tall trees and lush gardens in early morning glory. Or the front gate with the school's name plastered across.

Early days of all new human endeavors are heady. And early days of first year see a flurry of activity on the B-schooler's TL.

'4 days and just 10 hours of sleep. Hahaha. This is insane!'

'Insomniac already. MBA has well and truly begun.'

The marketing enthusiasts enamored by Philip Kotler's theories and enchanted by popular advertising campaigns liberally share links.

'This is mind-blowing guerilla marketing from Unilever! Totally flanking P&G's frontal attack on its competitive advantage. The FMCG war continues...'

'No words to describe this. The collection of best ads ever...'

Meanwhile the finance guys vociferously dissect everything from happenings in global financial markets to RBI's monetary policy.

'Insightful op-ed in Business Standard. Core Inflation continues to remain within control. Totally beats me why Raghuram Rajan just doesn't go the Keynesian way and reduce interest rates.'

'Hmm. Interesting article this. Recent empirical data from emerging markets busts the long-held view that gold and equity markets move in opposite directions. Do read'

They say in life, two things are inevitable - death and taxes. In an MBA's life, it's four - death, taxes, EMIs and  facebook DP in a suit. An MBA student's suited DP announces his arrival at the altar of management in the glass and steel corporate world (Preferably front-end and middle level, with a dash of strategy). You will transform organizations, move markets, and change the world - provided you put on a suit and tie on starched white shirt. The suited facebook DP is a highlight of the B school stint and surely amongst the landmark facebook pictures like class II group photo, wedding day click, newborn's picture and the greatest of 'em all - selfie in front of a washroom mirror. This suited DP lingers on the TL for weeks together as friends and family and Farmville buddies lap it up, pouring compliments upon compliments, and long lost friends-acquaintances-strangers extend greetings for a successful future. This latter crowd is that section of your fb following which becomes active only on landmark events. The next time they'll like/comment on your fb post, it'll be when you upload a picture from your wedding album. Inevitably, suited DP is one of t he B-schooler's highest grossing posts.

In what are ominous signs of the future, as the MBA student moves ahead in his journey of becoming a 'manager', the facebook posts turn bossy and irritating.

Courtesy: www.reckontalk.com

Cutting-edge research is an absolute must to gather deep insights into contemporary marketing problems of FMCG-FMCD giants operating in India that the B-schooler seeks to address in trim-end projects. And what better platform to conduct a market research spanning across diverse age groups and socioeconomic classes than your facebook timeline? That strong community built from long years in school, coaching classes, engineering colleges and candy crush. Thus the thought leader of  tomorrow broadcasts google forms on the screens of 1167 fb friends, exhorting them to fill in responses.

'Hi, plz fill this google form on Fastrack. It is important for a marketing project i am working on. Won't take more than 2 mins of your time! Promise! Thanks ;)'

And then there are emotional appeals...

'I have duly filled *each and every* Google form shared. Please return the favour and fill this form on behavior of premium packaged food consumers'

To quote Adiga from Last Man in Tower again, 'Any good society survives on a circulation of favours'.

Charity begins at home, and promotion of college events starts from facebook TL for consumption of friends and family.

<Enter B-school Name>

Presents

In Partnership with

<Enter a free-coupon startup>

The Flagship Marketing Event of

<Enter a random Sanskrit word>

<Enter a permutation and combination of mar/mark/market with sutra/yudh/shastra/vista/smart>

 IS THE MARKETER IN YOU READY FOR THE GREATEST MARKETING CHALLENGE EVER??

 Prizes Worth 500000 to be Won!!

Register Now

A key part of most B-school events are competitions that challenge MBA students to think out of the box and come up with disruptive solutions to real world problems. There are competitions on next-generation digital marketing, and then competitions on creating powerful marketing communications. So many different competitions, one judging criteria - number of 'likes' and 'shares' on a picture, poster or video. 

And again, the hapless B-schooler turns to facebook.

'Hi! Our entry for 'The Next KRK of Marketing', the flagship marketing event of IIM Benaras. Please like and share and help us win!!'

Now, 'liking' this entry is an arduous task that involves wading through multiple links, 'liking' facebook page of the college, facebook page of the event sponsor and facebook page of the college's marketing club in order to arrive at the facebook page of that particular competition where, upon hitting the like button, you'll be redirected, God be merciful, to your friend's entry, for the 'like' that will be eventually counted.

Naturally, people take the easy way out and 'like' the facebook post instead, inviting the friend's ire.

'Guys do not like this post! *Go to the link* and like our entry! Team name: Dark Horses on Fire'

Soon enough, the B-schooler realizes it isn't working, and makes tactical changes in his bid to win the competition and conquer the ever-expanding marketing horizons as its poster stated. It is time to go direct. Where facebook timeline fails, free personal messaging succeeds. Thus, all and sundry 'active' on facebook chat and a thousand Whatsapp groups are pinged with the 'like and share' request.

The two years that an MBA student spends at college is marked by a spate of life-changing and earth-shattering landmark events - like presenting with the project group one last time before moving into second year. This occasion marks the end of an year of making atrocious PPTs stuffed with the most banal of SWOT analyses and BCG matrices - 'inspired' from cringe-worthy slideshare presentations -  that tortured audience members more than a loop Himesh Reshammiya songs on full blast. And thus, the august occasion deserves to be commemorated on facebook with a group pic and caption:

'Last presentation with Group 17, Division W. We came, we presented, we put them to sleep!'

Next up in the list of landmark events is, of course, Summer Internship.The irony is lost on the freshly minted interns as they post 'Started working at' updates on April Fools' Day. The facebook news feed undergoes a metamorphosis into LinkedIn for a couple of days.

'Started working at XYZ as an intern. Game On!'

Working intern? That's an oxymoron, boss.

Second year of B school, as it progresses, sees steep declines in the levels of academic rigor. The rigor translates into binge watching of Game of Thrones episodes and an 18th century racist American soap called 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S'. Facebook in the second year records multiple check ins at popular hang out zones within and on the outskirts of the city.

'Love the Pav Bhaji!' #Foodie #Connoisseur *Checked in at Juhu Beach*

'Not all those who wander are lost' #Travel #Explore *Checked in at Tiger Point, Lonavala*

The juggernaut of Google forms and like and share requests continues unabated for the two years. So does the juggernaut of pictures - pictures that have MBA student written all over them. An indicative list follows:

• Suited up, looking into the distance and speaking nothing in particular to a captive audience in a dimly lit seminar hall
• Suited up, beaming and showing certificates of merit at competitions
• Suited up, beaming and showing degree certificate in a convocation dress
• Suited up, beaming for no discernible reason
• Goa in Christmas week
• Goa after year-end exams and before summer internship
• Goa after summer internship
• Goa after final placements and before convocation
• Goa after convocation
• And of course, like their brethren, selfies on random occasions

Finally, as two years draw to a close, the fresh graduate posts a string of updates to mark Convocation. The posts could vary from a two-three para emotional downpour on making friends, facing challenges, struggling to clear GDs or abstract one-liners borrowed from top ranking search results on Google. Or they could be elaborate thank you speeches delivered from an imaginary podium, like the one delivered on getting an admit. And of course there are the convocation pics that chronicle the journey from getting dressed, getting dressed and putting on the robe, getting dressed and putting on the robe and the hat, receiving the degree certificate, throwing the hat in the air, one with project group, one with fellow members of the cell, one with fellow members of the division, one with BFFs, one with parents, one with a random set of people because frankly there can't be enough convocation pics and the mandatory pic - a mirror selfie.

#Convocated

Are we done, finally?

No.

Adios college! Time now to embark on a new journey. In a new city. In a new job. In a new office. At a new CTC. Under a new boss. At new tax slabs. #ToNewBeginnings

The Beauty of Indian Railways

There isn’t a public place that represents a city more truly than its railway station. The city’s railway station is its metonymic figure in life and blood, brick and mortar. With good reason, the railway station in the city of Jamshedpur is called Tatanagar Junction. A fading board affixed on a pillar at Pipariya station proudly proclaims “Alight here for Panchmarhi”. At 2 AM in the night, passengers in deep slumber – the one possible only in trains with their rocking motion and reassuring rattle – wake up to sounds of men selling sev at Ratlam Junction.

The late evening Kanpur railway station cut a microcosmic picture of the city. Dimly lit, dirty, and congested – its air putrid with intense stench of filth and human waste. The daily travelers awaited their train home, wary from travel on Kanpur’s potholed roads. Families spread their belongings, forming miniature households on the railway platform. The mothers packed and unpacked food, children alternately ran and cried, as the elderly perched on bags muttered advices. A destitute old woman spending her days and nights on a tattered plastic banner beside a food stand swung her arms violently at swarming flies. The railway station appeared as if expressing its sadness with the current state of affairs and its despair about the city’s future.

Running an hour late, the Avadh Express, on a long and arduous 3 day 65 stops journey from Gorakhpur to Bandra Terminus, rolled into Kanpur Central at quarter to midnight. The AC coaches passed by. Lights switched off and curtains drawn across their glass windows. Had it not been for the windows, waiting passengers on the platform could have heard men and women snoring smugly under warm blankets. Then, as if to serve as a reminder of India’s reality, followed the sleeper coaches. Young boys and men stood at the door with empty plastic bottles in their hand, their eyes searching for the nearest water tap. Lights from the platform briefly lit the insides as they rattled by. From Bihar to the city of Bombay, trains do not travel – they migrate. The coaches were full of people and their luggage. Two, or at times three squeezed into a berth meant for one. The ticketless slept on newspapers spread on aisles between seats. In dimly lit coaches, boarding passengers at Kanpur Central fought their way to their berths, shouting at those sleeping on floor to move aside and carefully watching their steps. A misstep could have crushed a man’s foot, a woman’s hand or a child’s face.

I found my side upper berth in S9 occupied by a tall and wiry man fast asleep. His bright orange hair stood out in the dark. He crouched to fit his frame on the short side upper berth and rested his head on his bag.

A man’s bag often betrays the story of his life. This trusted travel partner is a silent witness to his travails, and bears the brunt like his own blood and flesh. The color of fading green, the man’s bag had small square pieces stitched up at different places. Its cloth had worn thin from the years, much like its owner. I tapped him on his shoulder. He woke up, as if expecting a nudge or a tap any moment.

“Bhaiya, mera seat hai”, I showed him my ticket.

He climbed down the berth, put on what once, a long time ago, must have been spotless white sports shoes, pulled his fading green bag and walked away – all with swift, assured movements. Perhaps it was routine. Traveling ticketless, choosing an empty berth and waiting for luck to run out at some point in the night. Never mind the account books of Indian Railways. Never mind the breach of rules and regulations. Why does a man travel? Or a more pertinent question is why do the poor travel in this manner? On dirty aisles between seats, legs going over them all night; beside the doors of toilets reeking with the smell of human waste. The answer perhaps lies in hope – hope of finding work, a better place to live, enough food to eat, and in faint chance of it all falling into place, perhaps a brighter tomorrow for the children. That is why the poor travel, in the hope that a new destination holds the answers to their great miseries. The Indian Railways keeps this hope alive. While most public institutions utterly fail in their responsibilities, Indian Railways does a great service to the poor, by keeping their hopes alive.

I woke up with a start. The train had come to a halt beside a nondescript platform. Early morning sun reached into the coach through its grilled windows. The tall, wiry man was asleep on a patch of newspapers on the floor, crouching to fit his frame in the small vacant space, his head resting on a fading green bag. A few minutes later, the train rumbled to life. I drifted back to sleep.

Bolo Naashta! Naashta! Naashta! Garma Garam Naashta Bolo!

9:15 AM. A loud voice with a peculiar characteristic boomed across the coach. It belonged to a stocky, middle aged man carrying hot samosas and batata vadas in a blue plastic bucket on his head. His voice woke up a passenger sleeping on the opposite upper berth. The passenger stretched and his feet hit him in the face. Unperturbed, he walked ahead, delivering his breakfast time monologue in his peculiar voice. 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. 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. A few seats ahead, the usual routine scene played out. One of the passengers inquired –

“Eh Samosa! Idhar aa!”

“Samosa kaise diya?”

“Bees ka do”

“Garam hai?”

“Garam hai”

“2 de”

Exchanging money, the passenger takes the samosas in a piece of newspaper, with a chilli wedged nearby.

“Eh! Yeh kahaan garam hai? Garam bola tha na!”

The passenger digs his hand into the basket, touching samosas to gauge their temperature.

“Sab ek jaisa hi hai saab”

“Jaa fir waapas le ja. Mera paisa de”

He fishes for the twenty rupees in the pouch made into his stained apron. Returning them to the passenger, he walks ahead, delivering his breakfast monologue in his peculiar voice, to run into another such passenger in the next coach, for another such exchange. Little wonder then that he spoke and walked like a robot. Years of catering to the thankless passengers on moving trains, of carrying oily snacks on the head, in a stained apron had drained him, his voice of human emotion. It was no longer capable of surprise, of joy and even grief. Perhaps there would be anger. Surely, there would be anger.

Courtesy: A day in the life of India (TOI)

Three young men occupied the opposite berths. They were different ages and traveling together. The oldest among them must be in his early twenties. He looked out of the window, at the passing landscape, digging the last bits of Rajshree from his teeth with the overgrown nail on smallest finger of his right hand. His well-oiled hair parted from the middle. The youngest of the three idled on the upper berth and got down only to fill his 1.5L plastic bottle with a Coke cap with water from platform taps. The third guy, dressed in a red t-shirt and dark blue jeans, hunched beside the elder brother, black earphones plugged into his ear. They rarely ate or talked amongst each other, each whiling away the time in his own way. At noon, as the train departed from Kota Junction, a couple, probably in their early forties, occupied the two berths vacated a while ago. The lady, a black shawl wrapped around her, settled beside the window. The man in a checked shirt and black trousers sat beside her with the day’s Dainik Jagran.

Amidst the quintessential hustle-bustle on a long distance train, the quiet and silence in this section of S9 coach was stark and unsettling. Nobody ate anything for lunch. A few hours passed. The man, tired from reading sad affairs of the nation and the world, lied down and drifted into sleep. The lady continued to look out of the window, her eyes unmoving, her gaze fixed. She was looking at the farms and trees and wastelands rolling by without really noticing them. She was deep in thought and reflection. The constantly changing landscape, objects speeding past her eyes gave her the solitude to ruminate. It seems so strange, that of all places in the world, a moving train with its rattle and tattle should provide the seclusion to dive deep into nostalgia and reminisce unlike any other.

“Kahaan jayenge?” the elder brother asked me.

Kahaan jayenge… Often the first question strangers ask each other on a train – the question that is meant to break the ice. This simple question paves the way for long conversations and camaraderie. It could be an impassioned discussion on local politics, a general rant about scams and corruption, or a window into their private lives. It all starts with “kahaan jayenge?”

“Baroda”

“Naukri karte hai?”

“Nahi, ghar hai”

“Accha ek baat bataiye, Baroda…aur Vadodara ek hi shahar hai?”

“Haan ek hi hai… Aur aap?”

“Hum Vapi jaa rahe hai. Navneet factory me duty karte hai… Badi company hai”

In the hierarchy of jobs that low income households cherish for their young boys, the elusive sarkaari naukri takes top spot, followed by duty at a badi company. The word duty, with all its associations to a uniform, a work schedule and perhaps a cap, gives the job a comforting guise of dignity and stability. Naukri connotes unemployment – Naukri nahi mil rahi, Naukri ki talaash hai –while duty connotes a steady income.

“Hmm, badi company hai. Navneet ki kitaabe, copy acchi quality ki aati hai”

Acknowledgement of Navneet’s importance made the elder brother smile. He neatly opened a packet of Rajshree and lowered it in my direction. I politely declined. He emptied the contents in his mouth, and looked out of the window, chewing onto the gutka contentedly. The sky adorned shades of orange as the train speeded towards evening from a harsh summer afternoon. The air turned cooler and more agreeable. On the berths opposite, the man was now awake and sat upright as the lady, so many hours later, continued to stare vacantly outside the window. At long last, she turned and spoke to the man in a low tone –

“Phone karte hai usse. Pata nai bedsheet change kiya bhi hoga ki nahi”

A few moments later, the man replied,

“Kiya hoga. Humne nikalte waqt kaha toh tha”

“Ji… Maine makaan malik ko bhi kaha tha badalne ke liye”

“Dekho makaan malik bhi kitna accha tha. Aaj kal kahaan milte hai aise log”

The lady didn’t respond to this. She turned her gaze back to outside the window, as distant landscape obscured from view in the fading evening light. A catering services boy carrying biscuits, cakes, wafers and chocolates moved around cheerfully, loudly exhorting passengers to buy some. He moved quickly and cleverly paused to rearrange the contents of his basket near the section with kids to entice their attention and nudge this attention into stubbornness. A passenger picked up a Britannia cake packet. Its expiry date was next month. She refused to buy a packet due for expiry so soon. But the catering boy persisted – weaving vague stories and theories like a salesman keen to close a deal. He took ‘personal guarantee’ of the cake’s quality, explaining how companies always undermined the life of their goods. It doesn’t work out that way in India, he quipped. As the haggle continued, a now-familiar listless voice filled the air, as if leaking from an old loudspeaker in the distance –

“Khaana! Khaana! Khaana. Sabzi roti ka garam khana boliye!”

The difference between two men doing the same work couldn’t have been starker – one morose and mechanical, the other ebullient and enthusiastic. One wary and hardened from the years gone by, the other filled with hope and optimism for the future. That is the thing about youth; one thinks one can change the world.

“Kanpur kaahe gaye the?” the elder brother resumed conversation. He had noted me boarding at Kanpur Central.

“Interview”

His eyes widened. He leaned forward and asked “Naukri?”

“Nahi… Padhaai”

“Accha…” He slouched back into the seat.

“Hum soche ki hum yahaan Lucknowve se Gujarat aaye hai… koi Gujarat se U.P. kaahe jayega 
naukri ke liye”

There are articles and statistics galore highlighting the poor economic growth and rampant unemployment in the Hindi heartland of India. But the momentary disbelief on his face, upon hearing someone going to U.P. for a job interview, captured gravity of the situation like no written word can.

The lady turned her gaze away from the window to speak to her husband –

“9 ghante ho gaye…”

“Hmm, 9 ghante ho gaye. Kal subah ek poora din ho jayega. Isi tarah din aur mahine beet 
jayenge…”

Silence ensued. She looked out of the window. It had turned pitch dark by now. One could barely see the outline of trees and hillocks passing by, beyond the lights from the train. The elder brother reached for his bag beneath the seat and took out a rectangular box with a shiny sticker on its head. Bold letters in dark green majestic font read “Lucknow Bakery”. He opened the box and offered –

“Lijiye bhaiya. Lucknow ke mashoor”

“Thank you” I took one biscuit and ate.

“Hum jab bhi Lucknow aate hai, do teen box zaroor le kar laut te hai Gujarat. Chote ko kaafi pasand hai” He looked at the upper berth.

“Kitni baar jaana hota hai Lucknow?”

He sighed and looked out into the dark as he spoke –

“Saal me do teen baar. Jab bhi ghar me kaam aata hai, chale aate hai. Baaki samay wahin Gujarat me. Factory waale room diye hai just factory ke bagal me. Wohin par khaana, peena, sona”

“Lucknow me hi naukri lene ki koshish nahi ki?”

“Lucknowve me kahaan bhaiya. Naukri milegi bhi toh paisa nai milega. Aur Lucknow, Kanpuri ke aage kuch nai hai… Yahaan Gujarat me paisa theek milta hai. Parivaar ke 6-7 ladke yahin kaam karte hai. Iss baar Chote ko bhi lekar chal rahe hai. Bade saahab bole hai Chote ki duty lagwaa denge”

Forced migration and its perils – that explained the youngest brother, Chote, spending the day alone on the upper berth, not talking to anyone, not gazing out of the window or listening to songs. He even refused to eat Lucknow Bakery biscuits. He was making the journey from home to an unfamiliar place, filled with strangers and an alien language. He was making the journey from friends to fellow workers, from freedom to ‘duty’, from cricket in the gully to stacks of white blank paper in a factory.

The lady spoke again –

“Khaana khaya hoga ki nahi?”

“Nahi khaya hoga toh kha lega…kyun itni fikar karti ho”

“Pehli baar ghar se alag, apne aap rahega. Pata nai kaise…” Her voice cracked.

The man sighed.

“Reh lega… Bacche sikh jaate hai. Buwajaan ka ladka Feroze bhi toh reh raha hai ek saal se”

He continued –

“Kal se class shuru ho jayegi. Fir padhai me hi samay beet jayega uska. Ghar ki yaad nahi aayegi”

He spoke as much to himself as to his wife, consoling his own uncertainties and fears he chose not to give words. It all became clear now. They had boarded at Kota. They had come to drop their son for his studies at the hub of IIT JEE and AIEEE preparations. Every year, thousands of students migrated to Kota to realize the ultimate dream – IIT – the passport to unbridled success and prosperity, the bragging rights for life.

The lady concurred –

“Aakhir uske future ke liye yahi theek hai”

She opened a bottle of water and drank a little. The man called his son. He had finished dinner and changed the bed sheet, about to sleep to be up in time for the 7 AM Physics class next morning.
The rattle of moving train became more pronounced in the silence of night. Cold wind gushed in from the open windows. A space of six train berths, and three different stories – one, of flight from home to earn a living for the family thousand miles away, the other, of separation from lone son in hope of a better education, and yet another a journey in search of newer pastures. And yet the three disparate stories shared a common theme – hope, hope for a better future.Therein lies the beauty of Indian Railways. Each train is a microcosm of quintessential Indian society.

The unforgettable voice, peculiar in its complete lack of emotion, like sound leaking from an old loudspeaker could be heard from the distance.

“Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana. Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”