I never was ever into the toy thing. Father quit buying me toys after he realized a He-Man couldn’t offset a neighbor’s asinine decision of gifting me a Skeletor action figure. “Who buys a kid the villain of a comic series?” But a year later some relative, probably from abroad, bought me a train set for my tenth birthday. Oh how I loved that train set. With that black engine which would light up on that rare occasion when all 16 batteries ( maybe more) were running on maximum juice. The brown coaches with people drawn on the windows and retractable mounts. And the best of all, the tracks. It made me the master of that train set in a way. The train goes where I chose, in beautiful contours, in a straight line or in that travesty of progress, circles.
I have a strange fascination for the character of something. It has brought me much grief in seeing how hollow things were, that to me did not have any. Perhaps character is not the right word. It has been relegated to ethical discourses in management tomes and 5th grade moral science textbooks with stern warnings of how character was what you did when nobody was watching. If that is indeed character, I imagine we would all be inveterate nose pickers. There is, however, this word used to describe a particularly soulful rendition of a song. Bhavam. Perhaps that is the word I am looking for. I guess I have a strange fascination for the Bhavam of something. The soul.
When we moved to Bangalore, we made frequent trips to Madras, for home is where the heart is. Father insisted we not fly and given the paranoia I once had with air travel, I was only too happy. We would wait at the Bangalore Cantonment station and get on the Shatabdi. I used to hate those 6 hours with all my heart. It stank of no soul. From the wet towels they used to give us when we got on to the dried samosa at the end, it all seemed so wrong. This wasn’t really a train ride was it?
Train rides were about rejoicing when getting a window seat. About looking out into the green, green world, mile after mile. About sharing space with complete strangers and getting them to swap their window seat. About train-stops in obscure places. And the incredible thrill of being bought Uncle Chips. How I loved those! Every tangy bite of potato chip, endorsed by a jolly man with the most adorable double chin. Sitting upright and proper in A/C compartments while being waited on by some poor soul does not make for a very enjoyable experience. Or maybe it’s just me.
I was 19 and I was in love. I went to Delhi to meet her and her family and my collective experiences that month would put that Wonder Years kid to shame. We had been going out for a year then and during that month, I saw myself planning the incredible ‘rest of our lives’ we would have. The evenings when I would cook her favorite Risotto, the fights we would have, listening to her talk about something Chomsky said that I would never understand. A couple of days before returning to Bangalore, while we were having lunch, she decides to tell me she was going to Wharton and how maybe we should move on.
For once, the details are nebulous, but there I was sitting in a train with her, headed home. Only, home was 2 days and a lot of heartache away. I hated sitting in front of her, pretending to be too proud to win her back while the reality of my incapability to do that sunk in. I wanted to be somewhere other than this wretched train and she knew implicitly. I wished the train would crash and burn with her, me and everyone around. The stations smelled of shit, the chaiwalla was grating and I yelled at the kid who begged for money. I hated train rides with all my heart. I haven’t set foot in one since.
Sometimes a memory becomes either the white bird or its golden cage. It chokes your soul, empties your innards and yet, gives you a strange hope. Memories are what we live for. So that we may talk about what happens now with someone tomorrow. To remind us that there is a tomorrow. White Bird must fly or she will die.
Maybe, there will be a day when I am sitting by that rusty train window, my soul and hair at the mercy of the winds. A boy will come by, singing for alms. I call him over and start talking to him. I see him eyeing the pack of Uncle Chips I just bought . And I see the smile across my face…
