A step in this journey called - life

Chennai mail, is at platform number one, announces the board at the Bangalore city station. As we enter the platform, our coach S-6, is right in front of us. We board it and find our seats. It is a lower and middle berth and we arrange our luggage below. ‘I will see the list and come’ smiles my husband. ‘Ok, also get a water bottle and come fast’, I reply. I have to tell that. There is something about railway stations and the genteel gender (yes, in my family the males are the genteel ones) in my family. They act like kids at a theme park.

He returns with a water bottle, a novel and a magazine for me. An elderly couple settles in the seats before us. A couple of guys occupy the window seats. There is a stream of people finding their seats, mixed with people, who have come to make sure their relatives really leave.

On time, the train gives a jerk and moves. Send-off-ers hurry to get down. As the train gathers speed, some people run with their bags to get on. There are always those. However late the train may be, there will always be a group who come late and have to make the ungainly dash. It is hilarious to watch, when one is not one among them.

The lady in front of me is having a monologue with her husband. It is about their relatives they met during the wedding they had come to attend at Bangalore. I am all ears. It is amusing; the way people talk their hearts out in trains, believing they will not meet their co-travelers again; the comfort of anonymity. My husband and the guys have the tickets in their hands. It is almost 11 p.m. and all are sleepy. We will the TTE to come and finish checking the tickets so that we can start our slumber.

The TTE comes with a flourish with a small crowd of RAC-ticket holders following him. There are very few ego-boosters that can compare to a respectful motley of people following. Thus boosted TTE checks our tickets, with a glare each. He moves on with his troopers and we settle down.

I snuggle into my shawl on the lower berth. Movement of the train, that can put out even the hardcore insomniac, lulls me to sleep. Some time later I am awakened. I realize there is some movement in the darkness in the space between my berth and the opposite one. As my eyes get accustomed, I figure a young woman is spreading a cloth after moving our footwear to one side. Then there on the cloth, among our footwear, she lays down a baby. The baby immediately crawls to a chappal. The confident way in which she is settling, leaves no doubt that the TTE has been taken into confidence. ‘Why don’t you book your tickets” I ask her angered. She just smiles. I bristle, having been woken up, having to find a baby trying to sleep among our footwear, having to fight with my conscience. I try to turn the tide.’ How can you put your baby in a position, where she has to sleep in this dirt’. She smiles again. She cuddles her baby and lies down. The baby makes some gurgling sounds and dozes off. All is quiet in the darkness below, as the mother and child sleep fitfully. I spend the rest of the journey awake on my berth, under my shawl, discussing whether I should have adjusted the seat with them or not.

I check my watch at 3:45 a.m. and doze off. The train is scheduled to reach Chennai at 4:30 early morning. So many trains are late so many times. However, hoping the driver l would slow down and reach at a decent time of 6:30 a.m. is futile. It is almost like the driver derives a wicked pleasure in reaching on time.

As I step down groggily from the train, I see the young woman and baby. She, however is fresh, among a big group, and chattering excitedly. I smile to my self. I have learnt a new lesson; it is called ‘chillax’. I will probably forget it soon and will have to be reminded many times about it, in this journey called life.