Short Story: The Night Train
Junu Goswami placed two day old news papers in the briefcase and boarded the train. Ahead is the long night: So many events, memories of so many small and big occasions in his life should have come obviously to his resting mind; how he used to feel a concealed excitement thinking of travelling in a night train-but now he was only looking at the wrist watch time and again, awaiting the departure of the train. ‘There is severe famine in china, ‘but the fact that my wisdom tooth has started paining is more important to me’– such a thing is perhaps true, but to a middle aged unwilling traveler like him it is not relevant. Through the narrow corridor next to the berths, countless people were pushing boxes, trunks, bedrolls, packages, creating commotion. Standing close to the bunk, pushed by passengers & coolies, he was patiently waiting for the ruckus to end; people to settle down & train to start moving. Beyond this he did not have any interest for his fellow passengers. Failing to get an air ticket, he was compelled to board the train. Now he eagerly awaited to get engrossed in the news paper as if he could not think of living with himself alone. Last two days had been extremely hot and busy. ‘Audit’ of the ‘marketing society’ was going on. In between glances at the newspapers he had to run here and there. But the headlines of the columns remained fresh in his mind: His favorite columnist named ‘Politicos’ has written a long article about the problems of Negroes in America, M Krishnan contributed two comparative articles about food habits of North and south India (certainly readable). He noticed an editorial about ‘How the effect of devaluation is influencing our art’, ‘To kiss or not to kiss in Indian Films’, a juicy article. He had read these at a glance; but inside some news pieces were left. ‘Do men cause more accidents than women’, ‘A Padmabhushan award winner biochemist says that drinking does not do any harm’, ‘In America efforts to bring back to life dead people by keeping in ice’ . ‘News of divorce again of a sex bomb’, ’In Manila Airport several English pop singers were manhandled’. ‘A ‘Sarbodaya’ leader thinks that it is ethically not conceivable for Russia to send man to moon before USA’.
For Junu Goswami, these incidents are more important to him than his own life story. Now that he did not have the work load, plenty of time in hand. In a sleeping coach he did not have to worry about a bed. He would fall asleep reading the ‘Causes of Corruption within the Marketing Society’ and ‘Problems of Population’.
His berth was at the top. On the other top berth was a clean shaven middle aged person, wearing dhoti & shoes without lace, gold chain on neck; every finger had a ring. A ‘time table’ was hanging from shirt pocket, in all probabilities a ‘Marwari’; but the plump lady with him was definitely ‘Marwari’ – a big nose ring, wrists full of thick gold bracelets, face half covered by a veil. They had plenty of luggage; lota ghati, tiffin carrier etc
‘They have no dearth of money; certainly they could have travelled by First Class’, he thought.
His opposite berths, were occupied by two very young men, wearing slim fit trousers, pointed shoes, full sleeve shirts with sleeves rolled, shirt buttons open. They might have started shaving only a year or two back. One of them was pushing their luggage through the window into the compartment & the other elbowing the passengers and collecting the luggage with surprising ease. They spread their beds on the lower berths. He himself tried to spread his own bedding on the upper berth in vain as a trunk belonging to the Marwari gentleman was obstructing his movement.
“You are going to Calcutta?’
“Yes.”
The two youngsters looked at one another. The one who asked the question said “Do one thing . It will be inconvenient for you to climb up and down .You take my seat. Near the window, you will get some air.”
“No, no.”
“We will have no inconvenience. Please take my ‘berth’.”
So Junu Goswami shifted to the lower berth, the youngsters themselves brought his bedding down. Junu Goswamy felt obliged. He said he would go to Calcutta to attend a meeting of ‘Eastern Marketing Society’.
“Where to change?”
“Why? Barauni. Where else? One night’s journey from Baruani.”
“Sealdah.”
“No Howrah.”
“O Howrah?’ ‘That’s right.”
Both the young men were going to Benares; studying engineering, one electrical & the other mechanical, both from Nagaon. He had heard the father’s name of one of the boys, and happened to be classmate of an uncle of the other one. He did not reveal that, but understood that it was not needed the boys must have noticed his graying hair, have offered the more comfortable seat.
“It is very hot inside the train’, he thought but reasoned quickly to himself ‘Last two days were warmer. Are the fans running?”
For a long time after the train started moving, he did not look outside. But through the corner of his eyes, he could see groups of people at the platform clamour and passing by close…… engine shed, high lights & signals, rows of static bogies, large cinema advertising signs on the wall, big hoardings of brandy and tier, a level crossing, diesel truck, ambassador car, rickshaw and a waiting dog at the crossing, new suburban houses, a sudden burst of noise, many lighted windows, a piece of Hindi song from a busy inn , darkness, reflections from watersheds ,a parallel motorable road, blurry telegraph poles. The Marwari lady, curiously looking out through the veil, opened a small flat box kept on her lap took out many smaller containers and started making ‘pan’ and offered one to her companion. Thoughtfully chewing he was reading the time table. A man temporarily seated on the steel trunk, was struggling to open the zip of a bag. The youngsters were resting; their heads, close to one another, were engrossed in an intimate conversation, looking mischievous, talking in low voice, breaking into loud laughter, at times, may be quite loudly but not comprehensible in the din of the train. Even now the passengers were not settled, people were moving up and down the corridor, among them, one or two military personnel, a small boy and two women with babies in their laps. He could detect a Hindi song being played in transistor radio in the din of diverse, spread out conversations.
“Sala zip ka baccha nehi khulega.”
The bag owner loudly exclaimed and forced open the zip of the bag in one vigorous effort.
Everyone looked towards that side. The two young men stopped in their tracks when his eyes met theirs, his class fellow’s nephew kept staring expectantly at him with a smile.
His eyes fell on the two ‘Film fares’ & a pack of cigarette beside the pillow of the other young man and thought “why have they not been smoking till now? Will they go without smoking the whole night?” He opened his packet of cigarette and offered to them smilingly. The nephew looked at his friend, closed his eyes to decide and pulled out a cigarette. The other hurriedly took out a lighter & lit it and exhaled two columns of smoke through nostrils and said like an elderly person “Next stop Rangia. Eight ten. We are thinking of going to the dining car there. Perhaps you will also……….”
“I had my food.”
“Oh.”
The young boys could not think what to say after that, hesitantly continued smoking. He leaned on the window and stressed his legs and opened the newspaper.
‘Today’s?”
“No yesterday’s. This one is today’s.”
He offered the other newspaper.
“OK –OK –after you finish it –will get plenty of time”
He looked at them, smiled and concentrated in the newspaper. Without looking at them, he could guess that they were relieved……It is impossible to deny that behind the decision to devalue the currency is the tremendous pressure of World Bank & American capitalists… ……Then it is seen that besides war, revolution and slow social reforms, there is another way with the negroes- non-violent struggle. Martin Luther King’s statement on the Alabama race riot, is a reminder of this……… In 1957 her first glamourous appearance in Roman Polanski’s movie ‘Kiss me again’………In the background of monotonous noise of the train, a transistor in full blast, many voices were heard but not intelligible. He was only able to pick up some disjointed pieces of the conversation of the young men, even though in low tones, as if these were floating towards the dark night through the window and passing close to his ears….’those few days of summer vacation’ ………’even though brother in law’s home, not my own’……………’After all I have self esteem….’and she was also so shy’…………In First Plan period during the year 1948-49 G D P growth was 8.2%, Second plan period it was 9.5 and during 3rd plan period it went down to1.7 %. Therefore it is an undeniable fact that the true evaluation of our financial ……’in the pretext of practicing harmonium’ ……… ‘took the opportunity and said’……. ‘her face became flushed in anger’………’the music teacher told ‘No yar tender, tender’…… ‘Bhai I knew that I had to leave; she also knew; it was the beginning of end’………’ just could not discern how the vacation flew away’, ….…’sister, brother in law’………’all came to the station’……’That scene at the station I will not forget in my life’.
Junu Goswami forced himself into reading ‘ period the progress of our agricultural growth is also not very encouraging. If we take the measure of growth at the end of June 1950 as 100, the agricultural produce at the end of First Five Year Plan i.e in the year 1959-60 increased to 116.8. At the end of Second Five Year Plan period i.e … ‘Who was Deukon? He was her brother or her brother-in-law’s brother? Who was she? Who was playing harmonium in Deukon’s study? That parting scene at the railway station, he said he would not forget. Amidst the books in Deukon’s study room, under the photos & the calendar hanging on the wall, dialogues were created with elbows resting on the harmonium, like a bad play, every movement, every posture, every common, unusual talk, he said he would remember in his entire life………… Everyone, sister, brother in law, all came to the station (and surely she too came). He analysed the words several times -a different taste; unfamiliar-yes, because now nobody comes to see him off; nobody awaits eagerly at the station to welcome him.
The train entered Rangia Junction in a big, noisy atmosphere with glitter of light and shade. The compartment almost became empty. He took a cup of tea standing in front of the stall. The two youngsters had asked him to accompany them once again.
Many military personnel were roaming around the platform, making sound with their boots (probably will go to Tezpur ) and from somewhere a group of ‘Adibasi’ men and women (from where have they come? where will they go?) .Lighting a cigarette, he stood with his back towards the closed book stall for some time, casually reading the family planning advertisement slowly, letter by letter like children and all of a sudden realized that he was trying to recollect a word. In one unseen corner of the station sound of bogies being coupled, on another direction an engine was shunting with intermittently ‘jhak’, ‘jhak’ sound and short whistles. What was the station? Which platform? Whose faces were those outside and behind the windows? Who were the characters in the old play? Which was the train? When was it, when? Frowning, he listened to the short whistles of the shunting engine a few times and entered the compartment. The Marwari lady was eating something from a container with her back towards him; on the trunk a sheet metal glass glittered. The Marwari gentleman was not to be seen. He leaned against the window and observed movement of people on the platform till his cigarette was finished and then again idly, hesitatingly glanced through the newspaper ……..Binaca Floride ….. To maintain jet black hair & keep hair roots strong, use ………….In festivals of joy, indispensable gift –‘ Usha’ sewing machine,…..now. Air India Slumber Class flight to London via Tehran, Beirut and Frankfurt, admirable fifth week, rain again at Wimbledon, Premjit Lal loses in straight sets…… The youngsters did not enter the compartment even after the train started. ‘Perhaps the dining car is very crowded today.’ He thought.
But as the train started moving, the Marwari gentleman turned up tying his dhoti, started picking his teeth with a tooth pick and told the lady ‘ Now water is coming in the toilet….. The train stopped at Nalbari or Borpeta for a short while, and the two youngsters hurriedly returned to the compartment. He for once raised his head and looked at them.
“Big rush. Some people will not get place to sit before Fakiragram- you did not eat anything?”
“No I am not hungry, ate before boarding….ok will you get disturbed if I keep the light on for some more time..I wanted to finish the news paper…..”
Still M Krishnan’s articles are left…he has forgotten the main article while looking at small pieces.
The light towards the Marwari couple was switched off and subsequently most of the lights in the compartment also were switched off, only the fans continued with ‘sha’ ‘sha’ sound ………Occasionally flashes of light entered the compartment piercing the darkness, the monotonous sound of the train; the transistor also started to make coughing, whistling noise as if in fatigue. The two youngsters slowly removed shoes & socks, and this time both lit cigarettes and talked for some time, this time not as eagerly, after that they both yawned and fell silent. The nephew removed the trouser belt, leaned on the pillow & kept looking at the flying insects surrounding the bulb, the other looked at the watch several times and then took the time table from the Marwari gentleman and started looking for something keenly. The train passed small stations ,where it had no time to stop, the green signals disappearing at high speed, in the platform half naked men slept on the top of brick walls around the trees -chilly wind through the window touched his face …. In a small village close to the rail line a marriage ceremony was taking place …An sudden view of ‘petro max’ lights, people, band party ….occasionally smoke lines & coal dust, outside the window flying red sparks …a car headlight suddenly appeared and vanished…..A garland of lights appeared in a small town far away..
He had said he would not forget the leave-taking scene in his life …..brother in law-sister – all came, without doubt, she also came. Junu Goswami tried hard to recollect an occasion many years ago; a story he read in ‘Abahan’; also when lot of people came to see him off at railway station……… Impressed by the lustrous beauty of’ paddy in south Indian fields it is not unusual that one does not remember the presence of white manure…….An incident similar to that, hero of the story (the writer), like this, was spending some time in a relative’s or friend’s house. It was Puja or summer vacation; a younger brother ( Bhaity) was there at the house. But unlike practicing harmonium in Deukon’s study-they had invented a different game: Bhaity or somebody else would say ‘one & two’? The male protagonist would say ‘three’, then Bhaity would say ‘three four’? the hero would say ‘seven’ (if he says ‘five’, he would lose).Then Bhaity would say seven eight? The hero would say ‘fifteen. Like this whomsoever makes a mistake or gets tired –a contest something like that. There too the male lead knew that the girl knew that the game would end with the vacation. Lots of complexity. Now he does not remember the details of the story and the story would stay incomplete. Even after knowing everything, the characters continued playing their roles as if guided by unseen hands…There also, she and all others came to the station…..The bell rang, guard whistled and waived the green flag; with a jolt the train started moving, the words the hero thought of telling for so many days could not say till the last moment, his words got mixed up, his throat became parched, no word came out of his lips……..She with all others were walking close to the train. Expecting him to say something she kept looking at his face in bewildering anticipation even though she knew that the events of last few days would remain incomplete…. As whole life is an incomplete flow………at that moment Bhaity said… ‘Dada, one two?’ The hero smiled miserably and said in broken voice ‘three’. Bhaity walked on the platform with quick steps and shouted ‘three four?-‘seven’. The train speeded up, she and others almost reached the end of the platform, all of them waving hands, Bhaity came running and caught the window railing and shouted ‘seven eight?… ’Fifteen’. Bye Bhaity –fifteen si….’but the game too did not end, the train came out of the platform, started negotiating a bend, he could see them no more………
Who wrote that short story? Hairan, no, no Raihan. Raihan what? Why did he like the story so much that day? Is it because some vague hint entered his mind from somewhere , a disturbing and implausible hint; that it happens like this, will happen like this ,his life too will remain incomplete. Notwithstanding all achievements, that is how our lives remain incomplete in some way or the other? That he will not be able to bid adieu; in the turmoil of living, his unfinished story will gradually fade away. He will not remember the minor details (or will try not to remember), precisely like his saying now
“Many years ago I read a short story in ‘Abahan’, by some writer named Raihan or someone; do not remember all details, liked it very much” why he liked it he cannot articulate now. Like that now people may be saying “Many years ago some incidents happened in Junu Goswami’s life, the poor fellow never married.” Now no one is eager to know the details of the story and he himself reads news of the outside world to the minutest detail.
Junu Goswami remembered that some time ago he was so busy attending his niece giving birth to her first child at the hospital that he could not read newspapers for three days and in those three days three major events took place one after another: China exploded a nuclear bomb, Labour Party came to power in Britain and Khruchev was removed in Russia. On the fourth day he collected all the old newspapers and started devouring all news to the smallest details –every opinion, every paragraph, every account appeared so important that if not remembered would be catastrophic –but now none of these details he remembers-only can remember that three events had occurred . He did not know when his eyes were closed, suddenly a jolt woke him up. Someone had switched off the light above his head, the blue light was glowing brightly, his half read newspapers had fallen to the floor; the youngsters were fast asleep. Even then the Marwari lady was seated, dozing & shaking in tempo with the movement of the train. The transistor was silent, In between the monotonous noise of the train he could sense that the Marwari Gentleman and someone on the rear berth were snoring, the fans were continuously running with monotonous ‘sha’ ‘sha’ sound , the ‘lota’ of the Marwari Lady making ‘clinking’ sound and …….. .
He did not try to pick up the papers from the floor and closed his eyes. Time and again the dull sound of the train is changing, faster or deeper, may be a bridge or a tunnel, Sometimes a train will pass at high speed close to his window, whistling & throwing blasts of hot air and rows of lighted windows passing and playing over his tired face and he thought of this youngster-so young, so full of passion, believing that he would never forget the scene at the railway station- with such surety. Every small sign, every single piece of trivial conversation will remain imprinted on his mind as if life would remain static at a point; such innocent conviction —and he did not know when his eyes closed, suddenly he woke up with a start at the din and whistles of the train. He opened one eye and looked through the window, saw several platform clocks and rows of tube lights and a crowded platform rushing towards him, the train decelerating , groups of people quarreling in excited tone; he guessed that in all probability the train was entering some station in north Bengal.
( Translated by Wing Commander (Retd.) S. K. Baruah from Assamese short story Ratir Rel by Sourav Kumar Chaliha.)
