Memories Of Manmad

By Sushmita Dutta

The summer of 1984 was a time of adventure and exploration for me and my family. We had just returned from visiting the Ajanta and Ellora caves and were now waiting at the bustling Manmad junction for our train back to Calcutta. It had been an exciting and unusual vacation full of adventure, history, and mystery.

As we stood on the platform, the hot sun beat down on us mercilessly. Our clothes clung to our skin, our lips were parched, and we were all eager to board the train and escape the heat. When our train finally arrived, my father checked the reservation sheets, and we quickly loaded our luggage and ourselves onto the train.

Our first-class compartment was small, with only four berths and a shutter door for privacy. I had snagged the best window seat, and as the train pulled away from the station, warm winds streamed into the compartment, caressing my face. I took a sip of water from the bottle I had filled at the station and settled back to enjoy the scenery.

The train sped past lush green fields, grazing cattle, mud huts, and narrow winding lanes and alleys for the first few hours. But then, without warning, the train slowed down and came to an unexpected halt at a small, inconsequential platform. Our compartment was too far from the platform to disembark, and we were stuck on the train until it started moving again.

My mother had a headache, so my father and I started looking for a tea vendor. That's when I spotted a young boy, no more than ten years old, selling an enormous ripe papaya. He wore a yellowish-brown shirt that fluttered in the warm breeze as he walked along the bogies, trying to sell the fruit to a commuter.

When he caught my eye, he held out the papaya and said, "Take it, two rupees."

I turned to my father, hoping for approval, but he denied it. I told the boy, "No, not now."

But he pleaded with me, saying, "Take it...it's ripe and sweet."

Again, I refused, shaking my head defiantly. But then, the boy said something that touched my heart. "Take it for one rupee eighty paise...I want to eat some rice; I haven't eaten rice since yesterday."

My father gestured at me at that moment and said, "Buy it." So I willingly took the papaya from the boy and handed over a two-rupee note. As I did so, the train jerked forward and started to move. The boy fished in his pocket for change and pulled out a twenty paisa coin. He held it towards me while I shouted, "Keep it."

Still, he shook his head and ran along the tracks, trying to catch up with our moving train.

The boy was running fast, and I bent down and took the coin from his outstretched hand. As I stood up again, my father pulled me aside and slammed the compartment door, locking it. I held the twenty paise in my palm, watching as the boy grew smaller and smaller in the distance. At that moment, I realized I had learned a valuable lesson for life.

I understood that many people give up on their virtues at the slightest temptation, believing that materialistic success is more important than doing the right thing. But I also realized that righteousness is a spirit embodied by the soul, fuelled by courage and will. Poverty does not make one less virtuous, nor does wealth make one more so.

Even today, somewhere in my most profound memories, the boy chasing the train to return a small change and his refulgent eyes live on.

By Sushmita Dutta