The Rags On Berth 74

By Spandan Rana

It was the monsoon of 2016 when I boarded the east bound Gajapati express from Mumbai Central. The journey would come to a conclusion in a little town in Madhya Pradesh named Jhabua where I was supposed to inaugurate the first adult literacy centre. Wrapped in dirt white rags, I boarded the train. It was nothing like I had ever seen. One could confuse it for a local train to Ghatkopar, but with places for people to sleep and urinate. Not that the latter would matter anyways, judging by the nauseating redolence of my compartment. “Excuse me, do you know where berth 74 may be?” I asked one of the inhabitants of the vehicle in Hindi, hoping to get the rough to them. He stared at me blankly, a tinge of confusion in his pitch-black irises. He lifted his finger up awkwardly and pointed at the end of the compartment where the washrooms had already found their first customers. A man from the upper berth poked his head in. “Who are you talking to, abba?” he said in his regional language which I failed to grasp. Something about the dialect screamed Marathi but the tone attached to it wasn’t celebratory and prideful enough. “Hello. Myself Ishaan.” His body and mouth spoke two different languages. He was aware of his broken English, yet he chose not to undermine the value of words and complemented them wonderfully with a charitable extended hand. I grasped it firmly. “I’m Tejas. Nice to meet you." the fluency of my English shocked him a little. “Well, Tejas..” he pointed at the berth across him. “THAT is berth 74.” I felt embarrassed by my mistake as the numbers in front of me were already screaming to invite me in.

Rice and curry create a stubble around my fellow passenger’s mouth. A part of me was certainly disgusted, but a thirst in my mind begged to be quenched. The thirst of curiosity. How could a person live like THEY do and not feel two things about it? How can one lick their fingers, wearing gravy like they were miniature turbans, and not feel judged? How can someone be at peace with such chaos? When the phone rang in my office, I was expecting a call from my accountant with reports regarding an exciting new business venture to propel me further into the realm of luxury. I should not be saying this but I was rather disappointed when an old woman spoke from the other end. Her voice was groggy and the smell of cigarettes in her breath could be eerily felt through the telephone. The idea of such a centre was wonderful, according to my public relations team. I, however, was not entirely thrilled by this particular prospect. My thoughts had been interrupted by a half-eaten meal package dropping onto my lap. “It’s a long road ahead, sir. Have something.” He gestured an eating motion with his hands. I wonder what prompted him to add the charade into the mix. I almost asked him for a spoon before remembering his nasty fingers. I stared blankly at the dish. Droplets of gravy raced each other on the outside of the package to judge who shall stain my attire first. “This is how they live.” I told myself as I tried to maintain my identity a secret, though I found it rather futile. None of them would recognise a Bollywood star here. They’ll deem themselves lucky to watch one movie a year! Ishaan got up, awkwardly asked for permission, and walked towards the wash basin. Grabbing the opportunity by the horns, I tossed the package out the window. I had not accounted for the railings on the window. The package exploded on impact, its contents arranging a haphazard rangoli on my lap. My simple act of childish defiance had caused a humiliating mess.

The night crept over the horizon and engulfed the last of the radiant lanterns littered all over the neighbouring wheat field; arriving and leaving like a slideshow run by a hasty projectionist. The train chugged along, polluting the night with its obnoxious creaks and shifts. Our conversations continued to Hindi. “Trouble sleeping, sir?” Ishaan spoke without sharing a single look. “Yes. It is rather noisy.” I replied with a sleepy drawl. “Ah! Once you have a taste of sleeping on the curb, you tend to befriend the racket, no? Almost can’t sleep without it!” he laughed in a hushed tone. “When you grow up sleeping on a curb, you tend to be haunted by it even on the most peaceful of nights.” I said, trying to maintain my identity. “True. Is that what’s keeping you up?” “Probably.” The dreariness in my voice saddened Ishaan. “You’ve seen quite a lot of life, haven’t you?” “What are the tales of disparity and frailty to a young and energetic man like you?” great heavens! I almost sounded like my grandfather! I was maybe half a decade elder to Ishaan at best! I don’t know what overcame me to pass such a comment. On retrospect, it was quite insensitive; insensitive enough to break my character for and apologise. Maybe I would have, I certainly should have. However, the comment that Ishaan followed up with made me rather perturbed. “Nothing. I just think of how my youth is running out, how my father struggles to come to terms with the limitations of his body. These things make me think to myself: how shorter can my end of the stick possibly get? What more do I have to lose when I was born with nothing in the first place? How much can we all lose, whether it be health or wealth or love, before we lose ourselves and become just another cautionary tale for the generations to come?” Coming from a man who has lived a life of poverty and disillusionment, the lack of delusion seemed less like a peace offering signed with life, and more like an unhealthy compromise to survive.

My half-hearted slumber was abrupted by vigorous shaking, almost as if someone was trying to shake their cat out of a tree. “What’s the matter? Is Suresh here?" “Sir, it’s me. Ishaan.” “Oh, I see.” In my tiredness, I allowed a bit of my vulnerability to seep through. Even though he never asked, I’m sure Ishaan knew how much this Suresh must have meant to me. To you, he’s just my son. To Ishaan, for a split second, he meant something more as they seemed to share an intimate idealistic bond bridged by my sorrow and repentance. “Well?” I tried to pull Ishaan back to the real world before things became any more awkward. “Yes. Yes. I called you because I wanted to show you something.” It was around this time that I realised that the train was stationary. “Oh no! Have we reached?” Ishaan chuckled gleefully. “No. No. The driver went to take a nap in the station quarters.” “What?” “Yes, people are usually too sleepy to tell, you were as well. Anyways, come with me.” He patted the side of my berth as he started walking towards the exit. I met him outside after recollecting myself, a cigarette resting between his fingers with a turban of ash wrapped around its head, set alight by the melancholic weather which carried the soft tears of the people who were, are and will be. He signalled me to be quiet and edged towards a half open door. “Mr. Singh is still sleeping.” “Who?” “The driver.” “You know him?” “Everyone knows everyone in those parts of town. Unfortunately, that’s where it usually ends. Just acquaintances to go and ask for salt from on the weekends. Singh has the most notable job in our town. Made the nights seem like daytime to achieve his dream, though I believe he once adored the idea of being a teacher for the underprivileged. Perhaps, before he realised that the single teacher ‘pathshalas’ don’t really keep one’s stomach content. Pass me that bottle.” I was way too engrossed in Ishaan’s story to process his request. It took a sharp “Quick!” to jolt me out of my state of ethereal numbness. I handed him the bottle without questioning its contents. I suppose I was partly mesmerised by the childish wickedness beaming from his aging eyes and crooked smile. He asked me to stay alert and run like hell when he says so. In his mind, he counted down the numbers. One…..two……three! and out came a gallon of spoilt milk. The room was painted white as Mr Singh choked on a crude mixture of his own drool and expired milk. Before we could board the train, the hulking giant of a man smashed through his door and caught a glimpse of Ishaan’s face. He would’ve never known who the culprit behind this mischievous scheme was, but Ishaan figured that half of the fun behind the plan lied in piercing the veil of anonymity.

The thudding footsteps echoed, waking everyone up. I wondered why they didn’t complain. They had the right to. Nobody should disturb another person’s sleep at 4A.M. Just then, his glossy black shoes stopped in front of my eyes. They stood unfazed. I could feel their groans and creaks whenever they slipped in the man’s humongous feet. “Oh! Enduring such pain must be worse than tasting the coffee that the interns have. Such grotesqueness!” I thought to myself as drops of my sweat kept rushing towards my lips with their salty flavour upsetting the civility in me. I would often scorn at Suresh for indulging in such ungentlemanly behaviour. I feared that the private schools would make him a snobby entitled brat. So, I allowed him to run around with the public school kids. Brats they may be, but they certainly remember that their status extends beyond their wealth. On retrospect, I suppose I didn’t want him to turn out like me. But that…..that was a long time ago. As these thoughts ambushed my head, I almost forgot to account for the receding footsteps and the driver’s room door clanging shut. Ishaan snapped me out of my daydream, perhaps he felt that this was an appropriate time for one to dream with their eyes shut tight. We crawled out from amongst the vegetable baskets resting beneath the lower berth, cramped to such an extent that one could not even feel the asphyxiation get to them before it's all too late. “Come. You seem sleepy.” “After that?! No!” “Oh. I’m sorry for bothering yo-“ “That was the most exhilarating experience of my life!” I swear I saw new life being poured into Ishaan now that his childishness was finally being encouraged by someone. However, a painful realisation dawned upon both of us. We reach Jhabua the day after.

The loudness of the moving train strained my eardrums to a degree that I cannot describe even if I wanted to. It was nearly magical how we could still hear each other with such clarity. Ishaan’s feet dangled from the edge. I stood holding on to a railing for dear life. “Scared, are you?” Ishaan laughed at his own joke. “Give me a break! I’m simply…..tired of sitting.” “And I’m supposed to believe that?” “Like you know me.” Ishaan looked away with a tinge of ponderance painted across his face. “Maybe I do.” I laughed at the possibility. People working with me for decades don’t know my personal life, the human beneath the three-piece shell. How can a man who has lived his life bare and vulnerable, judge someone like me? Even if I adorned myself with mere rags. “So, why Jhabua?” I strayed off topic. Something about it just made me feel…..uncomfortable. Almost like he was reading me like an open book no matter how hard I tried to deny such a possibility. Maybe he had a point. Those people worked with me, drank with me, played with me, but they rarely conversed with me. Not just with words, but with actions, intentions….anything but a materialistic purpose. “We’re originally from there. My father came to Bombay with nothing but protruding ribs and dreams. He owned a tiny shop in Andheri. People adored him. Kids of all ages would come to his store to listen to his stories and get a free Melody out of the whole ordeal. Most of them just wanted the chocolates but some of them truly did find themselves a place in the fairy tales he would weave together. He was very popular amongst the adults too. The office folk, college students and men older than the Soviet Union. He loved the attention. He knew that it would bring him the encouragement to work day and night to one day provide for his children. He hoped that we would live luxurious lives, something that he couldn’t fathom experiencing during his time on the face of the Earth. So, the seventeen-year-old runaway from Jhabua continued his endless toil, watching Andheri and its people change one day at a time until eventually, it had no place left for him. One day, he reaches his palace, the only beacon of hope left in his life, to find it being smashed to bits by a bulldozer. He was confused, lost, and shocked into a state of unwanted ignorance of the world around him. He sat on the pavement across the deceased shop for two days. His shattered heart had only been mended by the touch of my worried mother who had imagined the worst. Somehow, what she found that day exceeded all of her pessimism, which she loved to keep under the ‘guise of realism. It’s almost like a part of her didn’t want the world to be gray, just endless black representing the tyranny of God and the crucifixion of his devotees while the rich drank goblets of blood and sharpened their fangs.” I looked down to hide the shame in my eyes. He looked back smiling. “Anyways, as I was saying. Maa found him alive obviously, with a haunting deadness in his eyes. Before she died, she described the concoction of emotions brewing within her. She lined out her life, like an autobiography. She talked about how she met my father, how happy she was when she had me, her hopes, dreams and contentedness poured out in the form of mere words. But I felt it too. The sudden stop. The shivering of her breath as she began describing that day. Even when she was burning in front of me, becoming just a pile of ash to be spread over the eternal Ganges, I couldn’t figure out the emotion that had possessed her. Was it fear? Guilt? Gratitude? I’ll never understand. Probably because I’m too simple to feel too many things at once. Probably because I’m exempt from my mother’s hereditary curse of thinking and feeling excessively. They constitute the fundamental poison of humanity: ourselves.” “Could it be shock?” I felt obligated to participate, though I regretted it soon. My inquisitive personality was always an ill judge of character and incentive. Ishaan seemed glad to captivate me with his rather depressing tale, though I believe that he had originally planned a monologue. Either way, it wasn’t simply the story’s credit for pulling me inside Ishaan’s mind. It was the constant charismatic smile fixated on his face. On any other day, he would have seemed crazed to me, but that night, I could resonate with his unorthodox storytelling. I called it a mistake back then, a quality not meant to be possessed by anyone except him. Today, I look back at it as a merry accident. “Could be. I would be driven mad if I had to see the love for life drain out of such a hopeful man in one go.” We maintained each other’s company by shedding pitiful glances at each other. Mine were for the tragic story of his father. His? Well, I suppose his were for something far more complex. He laughed to himself as he continued, wiping away the singular teardrop that had escaped the strongholds of his heart. “I think I’ll lose him soon and I believe that it’s best to take him some place he can truly call ‘home’. He lived his best and worst memories in Andheri but that place has taken too much from him. At best, it’s a vacation at the Devil’s.” Suddenly, I felt an utter powerlessness over my actions. Something from deep within me forced my body to break through the walls that my mind had erected. Before I knew it, I was sitting next to Ishaan, legs dangling just like his, no fear of death, no tiredness from sitting. “And you?” Ishaan spoke, his question being a clear afterthought. My charades gave way as I embraced Ishaan, perplexing him into a moment of comfort and peace. “I’m not sure.” My voice cracked as the first rays of the new day shone on our brotherhood.

“Meals! Meals! Get your hot meals!” a boy ran past our compartment screaming. I always found these “hot meals” rather vague and stomach upsetting, but when Ishaan bought one for me without hesitation I couldn’t have possibly refused. The meal consisted a rice bath, with two white breads pressed haphazardly to cage the unruly yellow rice. The rice itself was garnished with peas and bits of spearmint on top to make it look more appealing. To get more customers or to partially mask the paranoia of indigestion, that I will let you decide. I admit I could barely pay attention while eating my food as my eyes tried intently to lock with those of Ishaan’s father. Was he really telling the truth or was it just for the sake of conversation? I had to make sure. After much effort, I simply gave up as the sight of his father slumping and spilling rice out of his mouth made me feel something other than repulsed for once. It couldn’t have been anything along the lines of disgust. When you see something disgusting, you tell your kids to not be like your subject. Clumsy, lethargic, languorous and outright abhorrent. No; I didn’t feel any of that. All I wanted to do was calm myself and prepare for the inevitable as I revert to the mental state of an infant locked within a crumbling frail cage of meat and bones. It was fear, but not entirely for myself. A fear for everyone I’ve met and will meet, younger and elder. A fear for Ishaan. For Suresh. In the same time frame, I looked at Ishaan’s perseverance as he patiently fed his father and thought to myself, “Maybe it’s better to accept your circumstances than to fight them when you have such a reliable crutch to hold onto. The young and feisty depend on the elderly for knowledge, wisdom, advise and caution while the elderly depend on them when their body doesn’t remain their own. Question is: where do we fit? The people stuck in this metamorphotic limbo.” “So, who’s Suresh?” Ishaan spoke hesitantly, continuing to spoon feed his father. “Ei! Don’t talk to strangers! Are you mad?” his father revolted, slapping his wrist. “Abbu. I’m not twelve anymore!” “Still. You can never trust these people.” He scanned me with his eyes. I saw a lot of emotion in there, though. I guess the dead can’t mask anger after all. “Uff, Abbu! Go to sleep, will you?” “I’ll sleep peacefully when you don’t try to make friends everywhere. Am I not good enough company?” “Well, you are pretty ill-tempered.” “Nalayak!” Ishaan laughed it off as he lifted his father’s feet and tucked him to sleep. “Don’t sleep too deep. We reach in three hours.” “Child, I’ve lived seventy years in this country! The day Gajapati reaches on time is the day I admit that I’ve seen it all!”

“Suresh is my son.” I answered after deep thinking. The sudden exit of words from my mouth caught Ishaan off guard. “Oh. I see. How old is he?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “I haven’t seen him since he was eight.” “How long ago was that?” “I…..” I sat playing with my fingers, trying to build up the courage to say what I should have said to myself a long time ago. “I lost track. I lost my son.” “Lost?” “Divorce.” Ishaan seemed unphased by the answer. “I hope you speak to him again.” “I did.” I said with my head hung low. “It was the 14th of July, three years ago. I called his mother because of a uh….” The words “bank ordeal” almost slipped past me. “….a family gathering.” “How did you call her?” “Oh! I meant write. Sorry. My mind wanders sometimes.” It was the stupidest excuse I could have come up with but it seemed enough for Ishaan to forgo the error. “Anyways, I received a letter back a month later.” My mind presented the horrid memory of that night. Drowning in whiskey and sorrow, I held onto my phone and cried. “It was written by my son. The most immaculate handwriting you could possibly imagine.” I heard a voice on the other side of the phone. A squeaky one. He seemed scared. “Such grace and compassion in his words.” I remember what he said. I remember those words to this day. “He said that he would love to meet me again, and that he missed me dearly.” he told me to never call again. He called me a fool. A drunkard. An ignorant father who cares more about his ego than his son’s cries for help as he sobbed and hurt himself. “Did you meet him?” Ishaan inquired. I wiped away the tears welling up in my eyes as I spoke the only honest sentence in that entire conversation. “No. I was too scared.” “About meeting your son?” “About what my influence could do to him.” Ishaan stared at me in disbelief. “That’s not true.” “It is, Ishaan. I’ve done some really bad things that I…..hell, I don’t think that I can say with a good heart that I’ve tried to make amends because the truth is: I can’t. I’m too far gone.” “It’s never too late.” “It is! It is. That’s just something people say in movies and books to make their partner gain sympathy from the audience. To absolve him of his sins no matter what he has done. This is my penance, Ishaan. This is what I deserve.” I could feel the hopelessness in Ishaan’s posture. I could also anticipate the last-ditch effort that he was about to make. “When I was a little child. No more than six years old.” I scoffed. “It’s not the same, Ishaan.” “Hear me out, okay? I’m not saying that it is. When I was a kid, I did something that I thoroughly regret to this day. I smoked a cigarette. I was easily influenced by the older kids and-“ “Ishaan please.” “Hold on. Let me finish. I came home and I confessed to my father. He gave me a whooping that still makes my back hurt just by reminiscing. But, I know that if I hadn’t confessed, if I had kept this a secret, I would not be able to look my father in the eye ever again. It was painful, maybe too harsh, but it was a product of honesty that stung at first but soothed a lot of pain in the many years that I’ve lived.” “It’s not that simple, Ishaan.” “It is not. But it doesn’t have to be as complicated as you’re making it, right?” I……I was stumped. This man just used the lesson learnt by a six year old against a grown-up who had made everyone’s life miserable…..and won. To answer my question from before. This. This is our duty. This is our place. To become the tales to astonish as we maintain the delicate balance of the fiery teenager within and the serene elder that we will one day come to be. We are the tales that inspire the youth and bring a smile to the, usually, senile old ones.

The hurry and hubbub felt confusing as everyone disembarked the train. Ishaan carried my luggage even though I asked him not to. His lean body swayed from left to right due to the weight of the bags before it found equilibrium. I asked him, “Does the train go back to Bombay now?” “No! It stays here for the rest of the day. People just love to replicate the feel of the city life sometimes.” “Seems exhausting.” “Unnecessary is what it is. People are so busy fantasising about the world beyond their reach….” He grunted as he set the bags down in a less crowded space. “…..that they forget that we’ve barely understood our own selves to be mimicking others.” . I held his father’s arms tightly. His eyes seemed different that day. They seemed elated. He was right. The only way to cure the living dead is to bring them to the place where they learnt to live. “I suppose this is where we part ways.” I spoke firmly, trying to suppress my heartbreak. “I suppose so. I hope you enjoy your stay.” “What makes you think I won’t settle here? I don’t have a lot of places to be.” “You have your son to go to. And your costume designer.” My heart skipped a beat. “My what?” he came closer to me and adjusted my rags. “We’re poor, Sir. But we’re not like our ancestors. You better talk to whoever conjured up this mess. They might make you wear leaves to cover your genitals next time.” He snickered. My face lost all of its colour. “What, sir? Didn’t think I’d notice?” “You know who I am?” “No. I know you’re not poor. I know that you have a lot to go back to and WAY more to do here.” He looked around, trying to attest the distressing state of the world surrounding us. People sleeping on the ground, kids tugging at their mother’s clothes while she cries and begs for food, people inhaling nothing but dust and ash with every draw of breath aiming for fresh air. “I hope you find peace, sir. And I hope you bring some to them as well.” Ishaan spoke while his eyes and mind wandered about. “Don’t you want to know who I am?” “What will that get me, sir? Autographs? Selfies? No, sir.” He smiled and joined his hands. “I’m happy with what I have because I can live throughout the day without a groaning stomach or barren throat. Besides, what will I do with the persona when I’ve learnt more about the person?” Once again, his wit and humbleness left me speechless. “Okay, sir. My father is getting restless now. Happy holidays.” “You too.” I was numb. I was feeling so much all at once. So many words waited to be spewed out as I subconsciously shook his hand. Innumerable parallel universes were created, one where I embraced him, another where I paid him, so on and so forth. But as his figure dissolved into the crowd and found itself engraved on my mind, I found myself experiencing a strange sense of tranquillity. It felt wrong, but I suppose I would have committed a far greater sin than any if I had put a price tag on human decency and care.

Today, I stand before you all, narrating this endless story because I have now escaped the aforementioned metamorphotic limbo. I am old. I am frail. I have cataracts. I shiver at the thought of my younger self watching me eat oatmeal for dinner instead of a plate of aromatic biryani. Still, if I were to travel to the universal motherland tomorrow itself, I would have no regrets in my heart. We all make mistakes. Sometimes they’re meagre presumptions, sometimes they can be catastrophic. One must not simply learn from their mistakes, they must make sure that they look back on it as a fortunate accident, instead of the bane of their existence. If we don’t bother turning our mistakes into something we can laugh about by giving them happy endings, then it can no longer be called a ‘mistake’; it is a crime. Thank you.

By Spandan Rana