Back then, as I said, it was snail like existence, withdraw at the first sign of change. One summer, I had to travel all the way to Amritsar from Madras. Alone. I was quite scared at the prospect. I managed to board the train, and somehow events moved rather smoothly. I just sat reading a book or two the whole while, night and day, not communicating with the garrulous bunch of villagers and, men women and children who made the most of along distanced journey. They cooked chappatis, cut vegetables, pumped kerosene primus stoves into life, and ate what appeared to be the most delicious smelling and looking fare I had ever chanced upon. They gestured, asking if wanted some. I shook my head and went back into my pages. As I mentioned, I was uncomfortable in company.

The journey was eternally long in the sixties, and trains were notoriously slow too. The longer the sojourn, the more merriment the crowd in my compartment was having. Singing, playing cards. And, eating non-stop. About halfway during the trip, a ticket collector came in, chewing betel nut. He looked quite mean. And he reserved his special quota of nastiness for me. He checked my ticket, then asked to see the details of my student concession form, and shook his head and clucked. This won’t do.

Yeh nahi chalega.

What nahi chalega? He just chewed his cud, and started scribbling notes behind the paper form and ticket I had given him. As if on cue, the train slows down to a grinding halt. A tiny railway station at the Andhra border. All of a sudden the meanie says ‘yahin uttaro’. Get down here. You are traveling ticketless with false papers. And very unceremoniously, takes my small handbag and me, and ousts me and my baggage out of the compartment. The two minute halt at the remote outpost railway station is over. The whistle blows, and the train starts to strenuously chug life into the wheels. I looked around. Desolate and silent, and except for the mean TC who stood a few feet away, chewing cud, there was not a soul in the darkness of the platform. Puff, puff, the steam engine splutters, billowing clouds of choking smoke, creak, squeak, the wheels find purchase and the train; my train. My eyes brimmed with tears. I was lost, and being very insular by nature, didn’t know what to do. I looked as the train chugged slowly past, and read the yellow name-board on the platform. Sirpur Kagaznagar.

The TC gestured to me to follow him, and walked away quite quickly, spewing out a jet of blood red salivated betel juice. Then, in an amazing turn of events, two of the sturdy turbaned villagers who were in the compartment of mine, leapt down from the train, one grabbed me by my arms, the other clutched my suitcase, and in one swift motion and action, had me back into the bogie. The train was moving a fair pace now, and before the stunned TC could summon nerve and breath, Sirpur Kagaznagar faded into a twinkling speck of linear lights on the inky black horizon.

Laughter and mirth filled the cubicles, the whole compartment load of common folk, a microcosm of India joined in the merry making that followed the daring ‘rescue and restore’ mission of the two unlettered men, who grinned showing their stained teeth. 

I did not open my book the remaining part of the train trip. I sat with the family of twenty or more, and ate piping hot chappatis made oven fresh and served with ‘sarson ka saag’ and chutney, all ground and pureed on the spot. The six women too, joked and laughed with us, and I could hear their wrist-load of metal bangles and heavy silver anklets jiggle with their spasms of uncontrollable mirth.

Saala, uska chehra dehka? They chortled, picturizing the visage of the hapless TC, who they had conned, he was furiously chewing leaves.. and grinding molars...

This is India, where fellow travelers become brothers, where fellow men become Samaritans. Where all live as one large content happy family. Sans language, sans religion, sans caste, sans creed or gender prejudices and divisions. 

Late in the night, the train stopped interminably long at a wayside station. Somewhere beyond Itarsi I think. I was half-fast asleep. The day’s adventures and escapades had unnerved me and made me somnolent. I woke up early, and noticed the cubicle was empty. My companions and the family had got down. Yes, gone. I felt marooned. There presence, laughter and warmth had me made me secure. Now I was alone again. I got down from the top berth I was occupying, and something caught my eye at the foot end of the plank that doubled as bed in those days. 

A neatly wrapped cloth bag, inside which were six chappatis and some curry……...all still warm. Warm with the love of my fellow Indians. 

(The article originally appeared on www.sulekha.com).

Tell us what  you think of this feature. Email us at contact@nripulse.com.