"What do you think?"
The train hurtled past villages named Rampur, through hills and through rocky, dusty terrain. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak. The day was drearily turning into evening, the sun a large yellow circle touching the horizon, keeping pace with the train. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak. There was a rather interesting-looking tree far enough away that it would be with me for at least a few more minutes. The sort of tree that you find in pictures of idyllic afternoons -- large and leafy, undoubtedly with little yellow and red flowers scattered around its roots, perfect for a lazy lie-down with a book. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
"So, what do you think?"
The guy really wanted to know. He had spent the last ten minutes pitching his idea, and I had tuned myself out somewhere around the two-minute mark. Something about something social. Facebookshit, with some twist that I had completely missed.
"Yeah, good luck with that," I said.
"Thanks. What's your story then? What made you move back to India?"
Oh well, the idyllic tree was almost out of sight anyway. I'll remember the guy's name soon enough. May as well chat and mess with his brains a bit. I turned away from the window, towards my talkative compartment-mate.
"Have you seen Strangers on a train?" I asked, suitably seriously. "You know, you help me with my wife and I help you with your Dad? Bye-bye wife and good-riddance Daddy!"
Abhishek! Yes, he was an Abhishek. Abhishek looked aghast and satisfyingly funny. But only for a moment. He broke into a big grin. "Of course, but that story doesn't end very well for Bruno -- for me, that is, does it?" he said.
I looked at him. Silver streaks in the hair, white shirt and blue jeans, reasonably good-looking. Hints of me-ishness in him, the promise of a sense of humour, lack of complete cluelessness. Hmm. May actually be pleasant, chatting with him.
"Sorry man. To be honest, I didn't grok your Facebookshit fully. But really, good luck with that, and this time I mean it!" I said.
"Don't worry about it," Abhishek shrugged. "I am just programmed to pitch the crap to anyone who can potentially be connected or useful. That's a start-up man for you."
"Yeah, you don't worry about it. I've been there and done that and at this point in my life I'd much rather take a nap than Build Great Software For Humanity." I confessed.
"Ah, you're the original Napster then!" quipped Abhishek.
I couldn't help but grin.
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
I realized that I was actually enjoying this -- the whole thing -- the train, the old memories it evoked, and even conversation with a stranger named Abhishek.
"Been a while since I sat in a train," I said, "I had forgotten how much fun this is. The sounds, the smells, the food, ..."
"Especially the food," said Abhishek happily. He reached into his bag and produced something wrapped in an old newspaper. "Check this out -- the greasiest and bestest poison ever -- bread pakoras from hell!"
I gawked. "Bread pakoras!! You will not believe this -- I used to love -- nay, I used to worship these things. Haven't had one in ages."
"Go on then, these greasy triangles from hell are all yours! I speak as one who has already tucked into quite a few of them." Abhishek handed me the savory snacks across our tiny compartment. I bit into one and connected instantly with my younger self -- the unruly youth blessed with excellent metabolism and sharp wit -- the youth who had been whittled away by passing years into a calorie-counting caricature of his former self.
"My wife was right," I said, munching down the last of the bread pakoras. "She went on this very train some time back with her old friends. She told me to go on this journey to 're-discover' myself. I think I've found myself -- somewhere between those two bread slices bound by chutney and wrapped in batter and oil! Do you have any more?"
"Heh, sorry, that was the last piece," said Abhishek. "I think your wife is absolutely right. All hail Indian Railways! I myself take this train every month and never get tired of it."
It was nearly dark outside now. Bliss. A lazy, satisfied somnolence rose out of the bread pakoras that I had eaten and began gently lulling my head.
"What brings you to this train every month?" I asked Abhishek.
"Oh, just this old family business that I still need to tend to a bit. I don't really have to do this, but like your wife Anahita told you, the train ride has its own mystical draw, it pulls one in..."
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
My eyes were starting to really feel heavy now. Anahita. My wife. Yeah, she would say that. But...
"Abhishek...?"
"Yes?"
"Hmm. When did I tell you my wife's name?"
Abhishek looked at me. His smile stayed the same, but the eyes narrowed a bit and then relaxed. "Strangers on a train," he said. "Only, it's not you and I who are the strangers who meet and plot. I met Anahita -- I met your lovely wife last month on this train."
I just wanted to sleep. "Bread pakoras," I said languidly. "Anahita knew I would fall for them."
"Yes," said the stranger named Abhishek. "And next week she'll help me out with my little problem."
I could hear his words, but he seemed distant. I could feel anger welling up. But I wanted to sleep first. I just wanted to sleep.
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jha---
The train hurtled past villages named Rampur, through hills and through rocky, dusty terrain. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak. The day was drearily turning into evening, the sun a large yellow circle touching the horizon, keeping pace with the train. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak. There was a rather interesting-looking tree far enough away that it would be with me for at least a few more minutes. The sort of tree that you find in pictures of idyllic afternoons -- large and leafy, undoubtedly with little yellow and red flowers scattered around its roots, perfect for a lazy lie-down with a book. Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
"So, what do you think?"
The guy really wanted to know. He had spent the last ten minutes pitching his idea, and I had tuned myself out somewhere around the two-minute mark. Something about something social. Facebookshit, with some twist that I had completely missed.
"Yeah, good luck with that," I said.
"Thanks. What's your story then? What made you move back to India?"
Oh well, the idyllic tree was almost out of sight anyway. I'll remember the guy's name soon enough. May as well chat and mess with his brains a bit. I turned away from the window, towards my talkative compartment-mate.
"Have you seen Strangers on a train?" I asked, suitably seriously. "You know, you help me with my wife and I help you with your Dad? Bye-bye wife and good-riddance Daddy!"
Abhishek! Yes, he was an Abhishek. Abhishek looked aghast and satisfyingly funny. But only for a moment. He broke into a big grin. "Of course, but that story doesn't end very well for Bruno -- for me, that is, does it?" he said.
I looked at him. Silver streaks in the hair, white shirt and blue jeans, reasonably good-looking. Hints of me-ishness in him, the promise of a sense of humour, lack of complete cluelessness. Hmm. May actually be pleasant, chatting with him.
"Sorry man. To be honest, I didn't grok your Facebookshit fully. But really, good luck with that, and this time I mean it!" I said.
"Don't worry about it," Abhishek shrugged. "I am just programmed to pitch the crap to anyone who can potentially be connected or useful. That's a start-up man for you."
"Yeah, you don't worry about it. I've been there and done that and at this point in my life I'd much rather take a nap than Build Great Software For Humanity." I confessed.
"Ah, you're the original Napster then!" quipped Abhishek.
I couldn't help but grin.
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
I realized that I was actually enjoying this -- the whole thing -- the train, the old memories it evoked, and even conversation with a stranger named Abhishek.
"Been a while since I sat in a train," I said, "I had forgotten how much fun this is. The sounds, the smells, the food, ..."
"Especially the food," said Abhishek happily. He reached into his bag and produced something wrapped in an old newspaper. "Check this out -- the greasiest and bestest poison ever -- bread pakoras from hell!"
I gawked. "Bread pakoras!! You will not believe this -- I used to love -- nay, I used to worship these things. Haven't had one in ages."
"Go on then, these greasy triangles from hell are all yours! I speak as one who has already tucked into quite a few of them." Abhishek handed me the savory snacks across our tiny compartment. I bit into one and connected instantly with my younger self -- the unruly youth blessed with excellent metabolism and sharp wit -- the youth who had been whittled away by passing years into a calorie-counting caricature of his former self.
"My wife was right," I said, munching down the last of the bread pakoras. "She went on this very train some time back with her old friends. She told me to go on this journey to 're-discover' myself. I think I've found myself -- somewhere between those two bread slices bound by chutney and wrapped in batter and oil! Do you have any more?"
"Heh, sorry, that was the last piece," said Abhishek. "I think your wife is absolutely right. All hail Indian Railways! I myself take this train every month and never get tired of it."
It was nearly dark outside now. Bliss. A lazy, satisfied somnolence rose out of the bread pakoras that I had eaten and began gently lulling my head.
"What brings you to this train every month?" I asked Abhishek.
"Oh, just this old family business that I still need to tend to a bit. I don't really have to do this, but like your wife Anahita told you, the train ride has its own mystical draw, it pulls one in..."
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jhatak.
My eyes were starting to really feel heavy now. Anahita. My wife. Yeah, she would say that. But...
"Abhishek...?"
"Yes?"
"Hmm. When did I tell you my wife's name?"
Abhishek looked at me. His smile stayed the same, but the eyes narrowed a bit and then relaxed. "Strangers on a train," he said. "Only, it's not you and I who are the strangers who meet and plot. I met Anahita -- I met your lovely wife last month on this train."
I just wanted to sleep. "Bread pakoras," I said languidly. "Anahita knew I would fall for them."
"Yes," said the stranger named Abhishek. "And next week she'll help me out with my little problem."
I could hear his words, but he seemed distant. I could feel anger welling up. But I wanted to sleep first. I just wanted to sleep.
Jhatak-jhatak, jhatak-jha---
