The Awaited Train.

Born in a congested room of Aruna Asif Ali Hospital, Delhi was my home since birth. I loved this city and it loved me back. Mother didn’t make it after my birth and father left me when I was but a teen. I had little formal education but a knack for writing as he did. He didn’t leave behind a lot of wealth but I had a small room in Old Delhi to call my own. Writing stories and prose, I lived comfortably. Delhi was known for its famed history of love and wine. In my raging youth, I went blindly for the former. I did find love; let me tell you about it. It was a ticket line on the railway station where I saw her. She was like the smell of first rain. She was like a lone spring flower in bloom. She was like the full moon in the darkest night. Her hair was dark and dense and curly at its end. They decorated her shoulder as they gracefully fell there. Her eyes were large and captivating; a lost universe calling out to be discovered. Her nose ran slender, arching beautifully at the tip. Her lips were tender, like petals, pink and lively. Her chin sported a little mole which stood out on her white pallet. Her cheeks and nose fashioned a red blush, thanks to the cold breeze. She was perfect. A young man at 20, I lost my heart. And my ticket. I run up to the counter, “I want a ticket for wherever she is headed”. The man behind the little glass opening smiled, probably reminiscing of his days, punched the keys on his huge keyboard and handed me a ticket. I fished out of my pocket, the remnants of my monthly allowance and payed him. I slid under the metal rods in the line and hurry past surprised eyes that follow me. She gets into the first class coach of the train. I get in after her. The coach has 2 seats in each compartment. She slides open the door of one of them and gets in. I rush behind to see if the other seat is empty. * I’ve been a man of modest composition. Women have never been an indulgence. Love seemed too complicated and circumstance was denied infatuation. I resorted to my undeniable relationship with the pen and paper. I’ve liked all women; from the dark, intense eyed ones to the fair faced maidens. But this affinity, unfortunately, always remained one-sided. This once, though, it was different. This once, something felt warm inside. This once, it was love. * It was. I casually strolled in and sat down. I took my rucksack and placed it beside me. I ran my hand in my hair, also stealing a view of her through the corner of my eyes. Sunlight split on a kinked end of the glass window and kissed her across her face which shone like a million condensed gems. A few rebellious strands of her hair would trouble her which she would gracefully pin behind her ears. She shuffled in her seat, looked questioningly at me, visibly uncomfortable at my occupancy of the seat opposite to her. To break the awkwardness, I pulled out the Ruskin I was reading and flipped through the pages. I slightly directed my gaze upwards to see her smiling at me. In her cheeks dug a deep crescent dimple and her eyes gleamed. I couldn’t bring my sight back to my book. She reached inside her bag and took out the same copy of Ruskin that I was reading and showed it to me. I smiled, “Ruskin fan?” “Huge”, she replied in a soft yet strong voice. The train soon shrugged and picked pace. The conversation meandered its course from one topic to another. She was the best listener to my endless tales. She sat with her chin supported by her hand and her large eyes curiously followed my every word. With my charm of a storyteller, I had her tranced. The train was spearing towards the Northern scenery, so told the window, but I was far more interested in the wonder that sat in front of me. I told her about the time I met Ruskin Bond and the time I was almost trampled by yaks and the time I ate soap as a kid and all the other interesting happenings of my life. From open mouthed gasps to her ringing laughter, her expressions only tinged a fuzzy feeling deep in me. I talked of my writing, travels and the little things I kept close to my heart; she smiled that smile again. Hours flew by as we chatted on. The sun shone brightly on what seemed the green plains of Punjab. The train didn’t stop at any platform. We zipped past crowded stations and sweaty farmers toiling away in their perennial routine. “Of all things, what’s your name?” I ask embarrassed, realising I was so far engrossed in her visage that I didn’t even know her name. “Marjaan. And you?” she replies with the same realisation, I suppose. “H. And where are you headed?” “I thought you knew. This train has only one stop, don’t you know. I’m going home; Lahore” My smile vanished. Those words were a thunderclap. Pakistan; it was the only word I’d been taught to hate. I had been told to stay clear of them. I had been directed to recognize them as enemies before I had even uttered my first words. Every cricket match, every face off stirred our sore history with them. It was a matter of pride and honour against our staunch foes. A sudden paleness took over me. My mind went numb. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on, yet I felt she was so restricted to me. No, it could never be. I couldn’t love a Pakistani. I was bound. I look at her, my cross border nemesis. She is saying something. Her lips move in synchronised motion but I can’t hear anything. I shake myself. “H… Are you alright?” a worried wrinkle forms on her forehead. “Yes. Of course”. I loved her. But I wasn’t supposed to. “So where are you going?” “I… have a writing assignment near the border”, I threw at her the first thought I came up with. “That’s great” A gap of silence followed. I picked up my book. “May I?” I force a smile as I ask. “Sure” she picked her book too and gave a little smile. I skipped through the pages but I couldn’t read. Not with her on my mind. I was blank. A gripping feel took on me. I sat there, battling within myself when the train slowed down, heaved and stopped. I looked out the window. A yellow board clearly expressed in large black letters “Attari”. I got up, with a sinking heart. My legs trembled as I picked up my bag. I faced away from her as I said with a choking voice, “I… I have to go”. “H. Here” I turn to see her holding a piece of paper with a reassuring look on her face. She looked more beautiful in that moment. I stared, blandly, at the face which stole me, leaving behind a reckless havoc. I took the paper and without saying a word I quickly opened the compartment door and closed it behind me. I got off the train with heavy steps and stood aside at a spot where I could see her but she couldn’t see me. Her sight ran through the sparsely populated scene of the station, looking for the charming storyteller she had begun to like. I sat down right where I was and cried. The train bellowed, shrieked and began to move. I felt a pain coursing through my chest. I saw the open door of the train calling out to me. But I dared not move. The train pulled out of the station leaving behind a crumbled man, in the tears of his own making. On the piece of paper, in a sketchy hand writing, was an address and a phone number. A bewitching change came over me from that day. “Ye na thi humari qismat ke visaal e yaar hota” “It wasn’t in my ill fate, a tryst with my beloved” I would cry out evenings, drunk in my pain and cheap liquor, in a dark corner of the Ghalib academy in Nizamuddin reading out to those gone by lovers who understood me. The Dargah would call out to me, but I had nothing to ask for, being sure that He wouldn’t spend miracles on a sinner like me. I was a common sight on the steps of the Jama Masjid, sitting and shedding bits of my severed thoughts. Many a times, my small room in the dingy streets of Old Delhi would await the whole night for my arrival as I would lay beneath the naked skies wondering if she ever thought of me. I would close my eyes, with the agony searing through me, blaming the girl that left me hapless. 2007. It had been 5 years. I was a more composed man. I wrote for an advertising agency. I left the bottle when my ends couldn’t meet. But I wasn’t the charming storyteller I once was. I sat alone, I ate alone, I wrote, not for myself but for others. My life had become a hollow cycle of meaningless routine. I thought of ending it all but I couldn’t bear people blaming love for my death. My ignorance and folly was to be blamed, not love. Every week, I’d go to the Old Delhi railway station, staring at the wheels of the Samjhauta Express rolling away slowly. I wanted to sit in that train each week but something held me back. “Won’t board even today?” the station master asked. The station staff knew me and my story. In one of the many drunken nights I spent there, I told them all. They sympathised with me. Probably the only people I could call friends. “Someday…” I said with a hesitant look. “H. Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray” he said quoting Rumi. I had flamed in them a habit of reading. “Probably” “Life is short, kid. Don’t surround yourself with societal stigma. Ask your heart what it wants, not the people around you. You’ve suffered enough. Go, your destiny awaits you.” I found myself at a travel agency the next day applying for a visa for Pakistan. “Purpose of visit?” asked the thick spectacled, balding man with a hoarse voice. To find my meaning of life, I thought. “Tourism” I said. 18th February 2007. Anil, the coolie, carried my bag against my will. Raheem, the chai seller, didn’t charge me for his chai that day. Mukesh, the station master, rechecked my ticket and other documents. Sultan, the barber’s boy, gleefully walked beside me. The whole throng got in the train to board me. They got off and stood in a messy row. I sat by the window seat, smiling and waving at them; it was a smile that hadn’t been used for years. “Ab Bhabhi saath lana” (Bring her with you) Raheem said showing all of his tobacco dented teeth. I nod lightly. The train breathe heavily and pulled out, leaving behind the bustling Old Delhi station. What if she is married? She must be 24 now. I had tried to call on the number yesterday, but it didn’t work. The numbers must have changed, after all it had been 5 years. Whatever happens, happens. Anything is better than living this worthless life. She will remember me. She will meet me with the same enthusiasm. She will love me. With these reassuring thoughts, and the wind blowing gently on my face, I slept. I wake up on a bed. It seems like a hospital. A paper on my side table tells me it is the Aruna Asaf Ali Hospital. Beside my bed stand Anil, Mukesh and Raheem, all crying profusely. I smile widely at them and try to talk but I can’t. This is confusing. Why are they crying? I get up and turn towards the bed. My bloodied and bruised body lies cold, motionless. The CRT monitor hums a continuous beep. The Samjhauta Express was met with a bombing, I hear. I only ever loved two things. The girl on the train and this city. At least one of them was with me till the end.