God's Own Dilemma

Sometimes or should I say more than often, I doubt my existence. I know I do exist physically and at least some people can corroborate the fact, but this is not the evidence that matters to the world at large.

Recently, when mumbai was marooned and transpost network was at disarray, we were stranded at Dadar station. There, crowd was huge and every single square feet was occupied. The restroom, the platform, the foot-over-bridge, the single express train that remained cancelled, all places were saturated. The floor everywhere was wet because of the incessant cat and dog rain, and the restless-uncertain and aimless feet. People were roaming, standing or if fortunate enough leaning against the wall, column or anything they found. Outside the station, water had rose waist high which could be worse a little far. People from Mahalaxmi, Chuchgate, Parel and other small stations had already gathered here before water soar critical level. Commuters had the general idea of the locality and did not bulge out of the safe place. True, platform is one the safest places in India, barring the railway officials and guards who may wish to earn some easy money and occasional thieves. Numerous nights I have spent on platforms, reading books and remaining clutched to my belongings at the relatively unused part of it. That night there was no such luxury.

I realised that I was lost in the tiny world, that I did not matter to anyone except myself and that my stay was meaningless and was for my own surival, as the rest of my life had been. I was running our of patience and the nightmare was seemingly neverending. Of ourse, Richard Dawkins was true, I (or my genes) was/were ensuring my/their own survival and I was no different. Oh..something pricked at my conscience....why should I, at the first place, wish to be different ? I am one of them, as selfish and social as anybody else suffering the nature's fury at the "human-shade"-Dadar. I was also looking for some dry place to rest on, and jealously kept it occupied as others had done. Advertisement hoardings, featuring beautiful celebraties and models had been beds for tired working class poeple, but wasn't that my idea just did not materialised because we were good boys ! So why was the longing to be different ? Did I solicit attention, or hero worship or at least stand out in the crowd? Obviously not that much. I wished special privilege for myself, to get back to ***, to have a good night's sleep. Alas, I was not lonely in thinking so.

I could not breathe more, the compartment of the only train standing was suffocating. The filthy odour form the toilet has filled it, which was frequently being used. I sprung out of the precious little space we shared in the upper berth and rushed out of the train. "Prabin...Prabin" cried out Ranjeet, "panch hi baje he ek ghanta our sut le". His voice was suggesting he was too struggling to catch forty winks. I could not stop. Ambivalence had made me impassive. I knew i could not be assured of my existence, the individuality was lost and only names and faces were floatin.....

A Revered One

1145hrs. Sambalpur Junction.

A tiring 24 hrs train journey has left me unsettled. I am resting in the deserted part of the stretching end of the platform. Anxiety for the test/interview is growing with each seconds passing. The clock in the platform is still, as much as the people-mostly beggars, laborers-lying lifelessly. Occasional announcements form the nearest mike are like another caution to stay up in a relatively unknown place, though with a dieing voice. Horribly spread on the concrete square are some of my books, the last ditch of attempt I am putting in, despite eyes giving up.

I hear steps, intensifying gradually and then fading away. Next chance I don’t spare. Looking upon, a man in his thirties is spotted walking up to me. I am beefing up myself for the interaction, as he passes.

Attired in what sometime was a denim jeans, now turned to rages, he is no unusual. A face, pot-black, unshaven and deadpan. He is perspiring like returning home in a dog day noon, with yet another failure. He walks past the booking counter, past some excited travelers, past the sleepy hawker, past the lone and curious foreign tourist, then a child beggar counting coins, a long distance- quite and stinky, almost unnoticing, unfascinated. Reaching near to me, rotates his head in a well calculated manner giving a glance, as short as possible, walks past, again some distance next to a dead engine in the second track. I wait for another chance, from the dark end I emerge. Skin tarred, beard covering most of the non-essential part of the face, the Levi’s denim unwashed and torn, and the shirt borrowed from the platform man i have just witnessed roaming aimlessly. I walk past the same stuff in reverse, looke at the books for a fleeting moment, move on to the long quite and stinky space, past my nephew playing with his aeroplane, past Kabita, past my friend sleepy, dreamy, my family desperately waving their hands, the burning canteen, the booking counter.

A cold feeling like a snake round my shoulders returns. Amazed I face a younger one asking me, “ First year he be kya.” A sudden urge to restore the manners forgotten, makes him withdraw his snake like slender, boneless and cold-blooded arm as I say “ no, I am in ****”, almost as hesitantly as the platform man would have spoken to me.

The lonely departmental shop is on fire; darkness has engrossed rest of platform. The platform man has disappeared, assured somebody has taken his place.