Observations into a Pastime

24 April 2010

I have always been fascinated by railway stations. For one thing the place never sleeps or even relaxes for a second. The energy is always flowing no matter what ever is the time of the day or night. For another that is the only place where strangers are forced into close proximity of each other. At no other place can you see people being just themselves in unfamiliar surroundings. You can argue that the same is the scenario at the airport and the bus stop, but then it is not so. Airports are way too posh – the chances of finding a beggar are nil and things are way too organized to unite absolute strangers in chaotic situation. Bus stands – can be a competitor to the railway stations but then the time duration for which people stay there is minimal – buses usually do not get late by 10 hours due to fog. :(

Nothing is more fascinating to walk down the lengths of the station (if you have manageable or no luggage) or to sit quietly watching the crowds swirling in an organized madness. Or to hear to the endless announcements. The best one I remember from all those years of traveling is “Power cabin ke pilot jamadaar power cabin mein report karen” (The pilot cabin sweeper of the power cabin should report in the power cabin). Old Delhi Railway station is the only place that I have heard that one – once when Anshul and I were stranded there for a whole night in January – the announcer increasing delay in arrival by never more than an hour the announcement happened 47 times in 12 hours. Each time that ting-pong-pong sound went on, signaling another announcement and our ears stood up in the hope that this time it would be our train – it was usually the call of duty for the “Pilot Jamadaar”. In my mind, “Pilot Jamadaar” was one of those witches flying around on brooms…

Then there is that huge caravan of the so called needy people who are probably richer than me. The beggar whose body is wasted but the eyes were filled with the redness of drugs. The hinjra, who would be ready to blow out expletives (or worse take off clothes) at the drop of a hat. Or the lady with the naked child in her lap advertising her poverty with nothing except disinterest in her eyes. The moment the eyes of the crowd turn away from her she has abandoned the child on the floor and is seen enjoying away a bidi. She wouldn’t care if the child would scream off his lungs or fall on one of the tracks. And then there are children who would be insistent that I treat them to a Mc Donald’s burger- they aren’t interested in the home cooked food.

More often than not, I am in a state of distressed confusion whether or not to give alms to these people – especially to the last two categories I mentioned in the para above. The disdain that the woman shows towards a small child makes me boil with rage but then her plight is understandable. The child is a burden to feed and in all probability the end result of not love, not even lust but rape. The children who demand a Mc D burger instead of regular food are children after all – and it’s not their fault that they have no idea that it isn’t the healthiest food in the world. I have often sat back and reflected on the lives of those thousands of people who virtually are born, live and die on the railway station. For them it is the only home that they know of and more often than not the only profession that such a life teaches them is of stealing or begging. If I place myself in their shoes even taking drugs doesn’t seem wrong…for that’s the only way that they can dilute the harshness of life.

At other times I look at the whole thing from a more practical perspective. There are cases when the people aren’t needy and they beg because for them it’s the easiest thing to do. I remember once when I was sitting at the Varanasi station with my mother an able bodied woman of not more than 30 came asking for alms. My mother asked her if she was ready to work (the normal household work) for a salary of Rs. 500/- per month. The woman did not even reply and moved away. Come to think on those lines the disinterest in the woman’s eyes (in the case that I mentioned two paragraphs back, is nothing but unprofessionalism. If begging is all that she wants to do there should be a professional approach…persistence and a method. Begging after all is not less than a sales or a PR job. Appearance counts what you say counts and so does the expression in the eyes.

Then there are God men (usually blind – in a crude representation of Surdas) and seasoned thieves. Expressionless shifty eyes that are on the lookout of a “suitable opportunity” is how you identify such people.

So much about the people who make out a living at the station. But then the majority is of normal people who are there to take trains to go to another city. Spread out on the floor on bed sheets, in waiting rooms, walking up and down, on food counters and spread eagled on their own luggage. If nothing else they all share 2 things in common – the peculiar station smell that wraps them and a desire to get away from the station as soon as possible Some talk, some read and listen to music some stare and some just sit back and watch…like me :)

The Waiting Period

She lives in the holy city of Allahabad – where the 3 sacred rivers mentioned in the Hindu scriptures meet. She is old – though not as old as the city or the river(s) that run through it. Yet old enough – to have spent most of her life time there, from womanhood to widowhood. The house she lives in is older- for it has seen not only her transience but also that of her in-laws from a wedded couple to someone who lives in garlanded photographs. The house is rickety and a part of it is in a state of complete ruin. Yet the lady lives- in the part that survives, even as she sweeps the plaster that falls from the ceiling every morning- the two of them giving each other company in the old age- awaiting the one who would die early.

Outside, on the road (more specifically the gully/alley) the noises have remained the almost the same as long as she remembers – that is a comfort, in the fast changing world. The early morning sounds of the milkmen’s cycles, the school children walking down, mingling with the “Hari Om” and “Jai Ganga Maiya ki” of the people returning after a bath in the Ganges. The “Icecream vala” and “Kabadivala” sounds in hot July the afternoon and the sound of All India Radio (ye All India radio ka Aakashwani Kendra hai) from the nearby paan shop in the evenings. The buildings nearby have all changed – to accommodate the needs of the modern times – a/c’s, Tata sky and grills. Even the zamindar’s kothi that used to be a landmark (to guide the rickshaw-wala) is there only partly – replaced by a modern house (complete with a swimming pool), as dollars flow in from the current generation. Only her house stands like a relic or a sore – depending on the onlooker’s perspective.

The first thing that confronts a visitor on entering the broken main gate is a huge banana tree and a smelly toilet- which till 10 years ago was of an ancient style with no proper drainage (the waste had to be removed manually by the low caste’s specially employed for the purpose. But with time the low caste disappeared – eaten away by the job opportunities (the son of the low caste, who cleaned her toilet, is now with Google - not as a toilet cleaner but as a scientist). This disappearance had prompted her late husband to replace the ancient Harappa & Mohenjo-Daro style toilet with an Indian style- much to the relief of the children of the visiting relatives who would not pee for days at end – the sight and smell of the old toilet was enough to take away all desire to do anything with it.

Just beside the toilet are the stairs that lead to the main house. The stairs are high and steep and one has to be careful. On climbing one is greeted with an open verandah cum room and three doors – one to the bedroom and another to the drawing room. A corner of the verandah is dedicated to the green revolution – money plant, roses and tulsi that have survived ages to be with her. Another corner is a kind of shed – mud walls and no roof the from covered with a sheet of tarpaulin – the bathroom and the third one is where the ruin has taken hold of – advancing bit by bit every day in her direction.

The drawing room is dictated by the huge photograph of her late husband – the photograph hauntingly real as his eyes stare into yours exactly from the corner where he used to sit all day long, reading, ever since retirement. Beside the photograph and an old tattered sofa are his books – lovingly collected over a lifetime. Next to that is the door leading to the kitchen and on the other side are the photographs of her children – 2 daughters and one son – all from the marriage days. The bedroom is bare except for a mirror (that doesn’t show any reflection) a double almost-broken bed (on which you have to sit very softly so as to increase its life by another few years) and a big trunk (in which she stores- all her earthly possessions)



Her routine is dictated by the time spent before the Gods, the trips to the loo, eating medicines for BP and the Aakashwani – her day ends and begins with that. A meal cooked can last for few several days and in general there is nothing to disturb her solitude. Visitors are scarce – everyone including her children have almost forgotten her. People her age are either dead or too infirm to visit. A change in her 7AM- 8:30 PM routine is brought about if the monkeys decide to invade her roof (occasionally) or by the weekly visit to the Hanuman temple and the vegetable market, the monthly visit to the bank (to collect her husband’s pension money) and chemist and the yearly visit to the mela held at the banks of the Ganges. For the rest her life remains the same – sleepy days and sleep less nights.

Loneliness is getting on to her nerves, but the pride in her blood does not allow her to say this to anyone, least of all to her own children. When her husband died 3 years ago, people used to call her but with time even the number of calls has dwindled like the river in a desert. Once in a while they remember her, especially when someone needs to give an entrance test or has a day’s work in the city – they come without asking - for free food and lodging and go away with a cursory thanks and no invitation to visit them. She feeds them, cares for them and then lets them go- like a sage who has given up everything.

Of course once in a while someone comes along who cares- bringing her a new saree or sweets. But then such people are scared off soon enough – for in all this time alone, awaiting her death she has become the most updated database on how people died – the good ones in their sleep, the religious ones in the puja room, the innocent ones poisoned by their bahus, the rich ones in some strange city amidst strangers and the poor clutching a bag of gold. To those who are willing to listen she would recite the gory details endlessly, unaware of the fact that it can make people nervous. These passerby’s when they meet the common relatives whisper among themselves that she might have lost her mind. Damn these nosy relatives – all they can do is backbite and whisper -if Google Inc would have known about the database in her head it would have certainly hired her for a few 1000 dollars. Since this would never happen she treats the database as the prelude to her own death- the last name she would enter there in will be hers.

Often late in the evenings when the day is as old as her she can be seen standing near the ruined corner of the roof- turned in the direction where the Ganges was once visible – now all one can see is houses and roofs. Over the sounds of the "saas bhi kabhi bahu thi" and the cooker whistles her silence asks - how much longer? How will it be? Painful, like her husband's? Or calm and smiling like the deity under the Tulsi plant? Or silent like the long waiting period?

Book Review - Three Cups of Tea

Written by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin - it’s a New York Times bestseller. A lot of books make it to the top but then not all of them make it to the personal favourite list and have this privilege of being talked about in my blog.

The sub title of the book “One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time” says it all. It tells the real life story of an American, Greg Mortenson (who is also the author) and his transition from a mountain-climber to a humanitarian committed to reducing poverty and educating girls in Pakistan and Afganistan. The book's title comes from a Balti proverb: "The first time you share tea with a Balti, you are a stranger. The second time you take tea, you are an honoured guest. The third time you share a cup of tea, you become family..."

The story begins in 1993, when Greg fails in his attempt to scale K2, the second highest mountain in the world. He drifts away from the rest of his team -alone and exhausted in the mountains he ends up in a small village Khorpe (Baltistan) where the villagers nurse him back to health. To repay the people of the remote village he decides to set up a school for them. For a middle class American who has no real contacts in the world this was no easy task – building a school in one of the remotest corners of the world and that too on Pakistan-Afghanistan border- an area know for its cold deserts and the Taliban.

Undaunted and focussed on his mission Greg manages not only to build one but fifty-five schools in that region. He grew from being a common man to a legend but then there was no stopping- he still does what he loves most – using education as a means to eradicate poverty and terrorism from one of the most notorious(and physically difficult) regions in the world.

The book is written in simple language and there is nothing fancy about it- it reads more like a personal diary than anything else. For sure it’s a page turner – especially in the part when Greg is captured by the Taliban. He not only survives the capture but manages to convey to his captors that the mission he is working has nothing to do with any kind of extremism- if not the one taught in the “madarsas” where the future Talibanis are produced then certainly not the one that teaches Americanism or hatred against any religion.

The book gave me a fresh perspective to the conflict happening in Afghanistan, Pakistan and India- especially made me review my thoughts about the one between the Hindus and Muslims in Kashmir/Siachin Glacier. A lot of times I have heard that the common people on both sides of the border want peace and the war is more political than anything else. Newspapers (from both sides of the border) carry a lot of stories but then they always looked biased. Not this one. The descriptions of the atrocities suffered by the Pakistanis during the Kargil war at the hands of the Indian army made me think twice. I realised I have been so blinded by the gruesome descriptions of the atrocities on the Indian soldiers that I never thought the other way round. Reading it evoked almost the same feelings as Mani Ratnam’s Bombay had done – noone really benefits from communal riots no matter of what scale. The people on both sides of the border are all the same, with the same needs of roti, kapda, makaan an education for the kids and peace.

Another part that I liked was that Greg doesn’t sound pompous or out of the world anywhere in the book- he is a common man with common troubles – like not knowing how to raise money, failure in his love life and not knowing how to operate a computer. But then he still manages to be a success. I waste a lot of time, doing nothing and thinking that I do not have enough money- when I can afford a lot of things that he missed out on while raising the funds single handedly for the girls in Pakistan- like a decent dinner, like a clean pair of clothes, like a clean bed to sleep on. Made me feel ashamed that I work less and complain more- even when I am working to give my self a better life and here he was doing everything and not complaining so that someone high in the mountains (who will probably never would have been asked for an opinion) could fare better.

A must read – after all Greg has managed to become my personal hero.

New Beginnings, Old Endings

That was the first focused thought or image on landing onto the Delhi Airport. I had turned into Scrat, the saber toothed squirrel from Ice Age chasing an acorn (read: something unattainable) A squirrel with popped out eyes running after something really really insignificant in the real sense of the world but that which has acquired mammoth proportions...leading to avalanches and a change in age kinda scenario. My mind beeped again and again “Welcome to earth” in a robotic tone, again and again…and why shouldn’t it? Wasn’t I back from the seventh heaven?

As a Taurean, I strictly resist change of any kind but then within a couple of days the adaptability and optimism take over. Much to my indignation, time and again it has been pointed out to me that the same stuff that I found yuck some days back has become an essential favourite…But that’s the later part of the story…lets go back to where I was, at the airport.

The flight had been a tiring one…both physically and emotionally. In the 11 hour flight from NZ to Singapore all I had done was to sit and wonder as to why I was getting back to one place I hate so much. Gurgaon. But then forget saber toothed squirrels, even humans do not have much of a say once the flight is in the air. So I did what humans do when the chidiya has chukked the khet…I sat and wondered “he Bhagwaan…mere saath hi aaisa kyun?” as silent tears fell onto the unread book in my lap. But Bhagwaan true to his nature as always remained silent. Find your own answers. If I got down to answering “mere saath kyun” to all mortals wouldn’t I become a saber toothed squirrel myself??

Singapore, to much of my relief had terminals with working internet (so what if they were as slow as the huge dinosaurs which could move only a few meters in all day). This fact, like the Bhagwaan thing didn’t bother me, for wasn’t I the squirrel (sorry the saber toothed squirrel) from the same age as the dinos? The super slow dinosaurs managed to transport me (in the virtual sense) to my hubby and for a few minutes I was back to my old bubbly self. But then it was time to go and catch the next flight.

As soon as I was seated and had realized that there was nothing interesting till the next few acres, I dozed off. The air hostess came and asked if I wud like to have veg or non-veg. By the time she came back with the order I had slept off again and had to be shaken (not stirred) for dinner. Ate and slept off again and was still sleeping when the plane hit the ground and came to a standstill. It was finally time to wake up from all the dreams…even the ones I had been living in since the past few months.

Delhi, bursting with all its energy- the energy further energized by the special energy at the airport. It made me feel like the saber toothed squirrel to the power two. Here I was alone (I realized the true meaning of the word for the first time-pre marriage I was the “Bandar” in Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swad). My loneliness was again raised to the power of five in the absence of a working cell phone. But then…saber toothed squirrels don’t have any instruments…all they are supposed to do is to chase the acorn.

The night passed and the next day dawned. I, the saber toothed squirrel, resolved that I would not cry anymore…but will rather catch hold of the acorn. Struggled through the day and finally managed to get a place to stay, a Vodafone connection and an internet connection. More than I could ask for. And then late in the evening when I stepped out to buy fruits (for a midnight snack-old habits die hard) in an odd way I felt happy and relieved to be back…for wasn’t this my real life, my real self? Alone and independent?


Moral of the story: You (oops!! Sorry, I) can find happiness in any situation. Sometimes the grass is really greener on my side. Green grass means fertile soil and fertile soil means more acorns…yeah I know most of them are unattainable- but so what? They are there, I am there and so shall it be till death does us apart.