27 Down: A Translation

The train is on the move—chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk...everyone’s asleep, Mathura has passed by and I’m looking down from the upper berth. A round, well-cleansed, tall-handle lunchbox. I’d opened it—three small-small bhakars and lemon pickle, salt wrapped in a paper…I looked at one bhakar, closely—my mother used to pack rotis with lots of ghee on them to my liking…and this dry bhakar, a bud of lemon pickle, salt enveloped in a small piece of an Urdu newspaper. I’ve never been able to forget these three things.

“You’re strange, my friend. You said all your work gets done on the train, and you have brought this tiffin...”

“It’s nothing, just like that…” I was afraid he’d see the bhakar, pickle, and salt inside the lunchbox. I moved it behind me and started to talk about work.

When he left, I reopened the lunchbox—picked out each bhakar, one after the other—my one hand held, and the other tore—the coldness between them. A light lit and dimmed on each bhakar repeatedly. After two morsels my throat dried up so much that I began to cough and ran to drink water. Then with a glass of water, sip-by-sip I gulped down all three bhakars—wiped the box with the same piece of Urdu paper, and burped. I’d forgotten everything by then…except the struggle to swallow each bite of the dry bhakars down my throat and the sweat on my cheekbones clearly visible in my reflection on the shiny lunchbox.

Suddenly someone is awake and asking —“Baadshah, has Agra gone…?”

“No” I reply in a low voice.

It hasn’t passed yet—yet it would anytime, how long does it take for a city to pass? This train will keep moving forward chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk, and we may be asleep or awake, it doesn’t change anything anywhere. When the train gets moving it keeps moving.

I am lost in thoughts.

“You? Is it you?”

As if she took that time to recognise me. I stood at the gate in a white coat-pant and a hat. At her surprise to see me, I’d merely smiled.

“Your lunchbox.” I gave it back. This seemed to worry her. She took it back but kept quiet.

“That time you were in such a hurry that you left without it. You must’ve been compelled to fast.”

“No, I ate there. But I was worried that this lunchbox would have troubled you…”

“What trouble? I’d kept it safely and now brought it here to give it back to you.”

“So you didn’t open it?”

“Why would I? Your tiffin, your food..and..” These words cheered her, she was assured that I didn’t see her dry bhakar…but looking at her I thought for a long time how she was able to eat those dry morsels? A black bordered saree, a blouse with white piping, two black clips, and four bangles…that’s all, there wasn’t anything else on her body…like that marble sculpture I’d seen once..there was nothing on its body either…

“This is the train that would go?”

“Yes.”

Looking at her wrist watch her gaze changed from about-to-miss-it to I’m on-time, and she went and sat by a window seat. She was constantly looking not at me but, somewhere else, she must’ve not realised that today a big event has happened in her life…maybe she did? But she must’ve not noticed my hair? My hair has ruined at such a young age that I want it to whiten quickly. It will be good, white coat, white pants, and white hair. My father often asked my uncle for medication, but I never took any of it.

In my heart, I used to answer back to my father—I am a goods clerk. It’s great that my hair is already turning white. Whoever works there their hair will turn white! That day, in a hurry she must’ve not seen me properly, and now I am wearing the hat.

The train whistled twice and left the station. Peeping outside the window a smile looked at me. I waved my hands but she didn’t— both her hands were engaged…

The train was moving and had left. I can still recall that past smile. I’ll just need to take out a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe some dust off it. In all these years, a lot of dust has settled on that smile…dust from Kurla, dust from Kalyan…

I have the entire night to wipe off the dust. Entire night because I slept throughout the day. Now everyone’s asleep and only I’m awake in this coach. The train has picked up a good speed. This rattling coach’s pale yellow light and me—only the two of us are sitting. Because of the night’s darknesses the train tearing through the jungles sleeping in the dark sounds blare.

Chuk-chuk-chuk

Chuk-chuk-chuk

Chuckchukchukchukchukchuk…

I’m on the train and a train speeds up in my mind. I wrap myself in the quilt. It is cold suddenly. He has to get down at Agra and is waking up now. He’s afraid he’ll miss the station. The opposite has been happening with me—I pass by and places keep still, events remain still, and anticipation is left to feel a platform-ticket’s white pigment in its palm. There’s another bridge ahead:

Khad-khad-khad

Khad-khad-khad

Khad-khad-khad…

The train had crossed the bridge that night but as always I kept feeling there was more time. Its loud khad-khad-khad runs at the same speed as my thoughts. The train runs straight on the track moving ahead but my thoughts go round and round in circles, colliding.

A sweet image of that marble sculpture—the flavour of dry bhakar—the connate formality of returning the lunchbox. Looking at it at home she must’ve thought who will cook now, let’s just eat this from the morning. She must’ve sat with a plate and a glass of water by her side. She must be thinking, well done lunchbox, you have acquainted with the TR of VT…and the box would’ve opened—the steel lid would’ve clamoured hitting the ground…almond tint of the pudding…pistachio and saffron…she must’ve picked a slice…and wondered how did the bhakar turn into pudding. Then lifting up that piece she must’ve thought who is he, why did he put this…she would’ve taken a bite, then the bitten piece must have moved round and round, and would’ve somewhat gotten stuck to the teeth…chewing she might’ve looked into the mirror…and thought that tomorrow I’ll go to the same coach at the same time...ask him to help me in the same way—and coming forward from the crowd he’d give me his hand and pull me up in the same way—his face would speak for him—hello…how that one hello…had felt standing on that door…or this is also possible that when the lid fell on the the floor making a sound her eyes would’ve turned red, her arms and eyebrows must’ve tightened, and she must’ve said aloud—scoundrel, you ate my roti and kept this horrible pudding in my lunchbox…then she must’ve thrown all the pudding in the drain and thought of taking revenge…

I can never put a fullstop after thinking so much. Whenever I think about her I keep on thinking. Whenever I’ve thought about her, then and now, I see her black bordered saree fluttering on the platform. Everyday from Kurla to VT and if it was my day off then Kurla from VT. Now I can also recall that in those days whenever I thought about that girl my white hair would begin it turn black…Even if this hasn’t happened in those moments I’ve forgotten my white hair. Present means black hair, past white…

And now whichever side of the image I try to clean, bhakar appears spoiled and the pickle stinks. I can’t see anything outside in the darkness, only this sound echoes…

Chuck - chuck - chuck

Chuck - chuck - chuck

That was a night of a prolonged wait, such unrest, of lethal curiosity that what would've she done with the pudding. What would’ve she thought? Then an express train of my  thoughts started and didn’t stop. We were sitting in the train like everyday. Same thing was happening—I couldn't make a sequence of my thoughts. My attention was outside. I was counting each stop—Dhakurli, Dombivali, Diva, Mumbra, Thane, Mulund, Ghatkopar, and, and…Kurla. Peeping out, I got washed with the passengers getting down at Kurla and found myself on the platform. I got on the footboard and the train started to move. She knew I was always in that coach, so why didn’t she come? She should’ve come but she must’ve been upset because of the pudding, that was so impatient of me to do—why was I impatient? If my ASM didn’t get promoted, if he hadn’t distributed the sweets, I would’ve never kept the pudding in that tiffin. Then from Kurla to  VT, all stops passed by me, I didn’t pass by any of them. They passed as scheduled.

“I was looking for you” she got down from the ladies coach and walked towards me. Same lunchbox in one hand, and an LIC logo file in the other. Instead of black border, a red border saree, with a red blouse and red colour bangles….

 — “ Oh, you were looking for me? Why? I’d returned your box, right?”

“Yes, that you’d returned yesterday but I want to give this lunchbox to you again” she said, sounding annoyed and so quickly that I froze, and she continued “here, eat this and return in the evening.”

My arm moved like a machine and took the box from her…so she returned my pudding. I felt like apologising to her, that I’d kept the pudding in her lunchbox by mistake—okay, I will get down from the train, take out the pudding and return your box just now. I think-think in the meantime she got down the stairs. Her leaving in the blink of an eye like that. It upset me.

When I opened the lunchbox my eyes lit up. Three bhakars, with lots of ghee, pickle, vegetables, and salt wrapped in a small pouch of Urdu newspaper. I think it was the first time in my life I felt glad like that. Like a heavy shower of rain from a sudden overcast on a very humid day. I got drenched in the light the box was radiating. Some train was about to leave and the clocks were ticking, two people were getting separated and stood hugging. The platform’s ambiance became an ocean to me : I was sitting in an oar-boat; the boat was brimming with flowers; and the winds blew so-so fiercely that my boat would overturn now and overturn anytime.

Translator’s Note:

 

Lying on the upper berth of the 27 Down Bombay-Varanasi Express, Sanjay remembers his life in flashbacks. As a young man he aspired to become an artist but is forced by his father to take up a job in the railways. Throughout the journey, Sanjay weaves a tapestry of his experiences and their similarity to a train running on the line. In this extract—from Ramesh Bakshi’s novel 'Atharah Sooraj Ke Paudhe' on which the film 27 Down by Awtar Kaul is based—Sanjay recalls meeting Shalini, a daily passenger.