Spotting Veron

June, 2002

It is raining on the morning he leaves Shillong. It has rained for the pastthree days, alternating between drizzle and downpour. He looks out of thebathroom window as he brushes his teeth--grey skies, rain, pine trees on the farhills, red tin roofs--and feels an indefinable sadness in his heart. He quicklybids farewell to his mother and brother and walks through the rain with his bagto the car where his father waits.

He is dropped off at Police Bazar where a long line of Guwahati-bound TataSumos wait for passengers, their engines idling. A swarm of young touts encirclehim as he gets down from the car; he allows one of them to lead him to thesecond Sumo in the line. He clambers into the last row where there is just oneperson at the moment.

The first and second rows are full with four and five people respectively. Itis 7.30 a.m. His train for Delhi leaves from Guwahati at 12.30 p.m. The driveris a surly balding Khasi; beside him is his curly haired friend, then twomiddle-aged Mizo men wearing woven hats. The middle row holds a young Khasi boywith a cap who is smoking a cigarette, and a Bengali Muslim family: an oldwoman, a husband and wife and a young girl. The person beside him in the lastrow looks like a Marwari. This man is wearing a brown shirt with a floralpattern, has a red tikka on his forehead and goes through some figures ina small notepad.

He looks out of the Sumo’s rear window at the rain, the line of un-raisedshutters of shops, the shabbily stylish touts with wet hair. At 7.45 a.m. thedriver grinds the gear lever into first and with a mighty wrench of the steeringwheel starts the journey. The driver keeps an eye out for two more passengersfor the rear row all the way till the outskirts of Mawlai; then the houses dropaway and the trees take over and he accelerates alarmingly on the rain-slickedroad.

A while later the Sumo is coasting down a straight stretch that declinesgently; it will soon start winding down the bends in the hills. He sees to hisleft a ghostly stand of pine trees through which mist drifts. Far off and belowthe pine trees are the silver waters of Barapani.

Lower down on the G.S (Guwahati-Shillong) road the rain still persists. Theypass on the roadside small settlements that are beginning to awaken, and womenin jainsems with their children watch the world pass by on the highwayfrom the doorways of small wood-planked houses.

The driver stops for 20 minutes at Nongpoh, the traditional half-way haltbetween Shillong and Guwahati. Nongpoh is a one-street town. On either side ofthe road is a row of restaurants, tea-shops and stalls selling honey, fruits andkwai. Buses and taxis and Sumos dot the length of the road. Somewherenearby a large weekly market congregates, he has forgotten on which day. Hedrinks a cup of tea, smokes a cigarette and buys a copy of the Sentinel,which is published out of Guwahati.

Back in the rear seat of the Sumo he goes through the paper. The front pagehas news of the Assam-Meghalaya border dispute, the amount of illicit liquorseized in and around Shillong by the Meghalaya Excise Department in the month ofMay and an encounter between the Army and Bodo militants somewhere in Barpeta inlower Assam, among other stories. The sports page is full of World Cupstories-Brazil have beaten Costa Rica 5-2, Batistuta is crestfallen at the wayArgentina have exited in his last appearance for his country. The humidity inthe air increases as they go lower. The person sitting beside him asks for thepaper when he has finished with it.

Suddenly the family in the middle row want the Sumo to be stopped. The driverstops at a bend in the road. A door is opened, the small girl propelled out, andshe doubles over and vomits in the grass. The sullen driver looks on withdistaste at the proceedings. Once back on the road the driver sticks in somesort of a country compilation into the Sumo’s cassette player. The Khasi boywith a cap in the middle row lights a cigarette. The man in the brown shirthands him back the Sentinel.

He puts the paper away and looks out through the windows. Flooded ricefields, a thick carpet of dripping green on the rolling hills, a swollen frothybrown river that runs beside the road for a while, small streams of rain waterrunning across the road at bends (brown again with the colour of dissolvedearth). The word ‘runnel’ pops up in his mind. "Runnels of brown-colouredwater run across the road at bends"-can he say that? He doesn’t know theexact meaning of the word, doesn’t know he even knew the word. He makesa mental note to look up ‘runnel’ in the dictionary when he reaches Delhi.

He hums along to the shrill and scratchy-sounding songs: I never promisedyou a rose garden, Country Road, Rhinestone Cowboy, Raindropskeep falling on my head … he finds he remembers most of the words. The twoMizo men upfront light up, and soon the interior of the vehicle is thick withsmoke. The Bengali Muslim family sit and stare stonily ahead. The small girl issleeping with her head on her father’s shoulder. The music reminds him ofShakira, who is popular in Shillong at the moment. He remembers driving up thewindswept road to Shillong Peak listening to Whenever, Wherever, Tedejo Madrid … on a visit the previous year it had been Robbie Williams,with Better Man and The Road to Mandalay.

He has spent over a month in Shillong. It is his longest visit since he leftfor Delhi five years ago. He realises now how much he misses it. Mostconversations in Shillong now inevitably go around to the World Cup; in offices,restaurants and shops there are television sets permanently tuned to Ten Sports.

Just after 10 a.m. they reach the trifurcation at Jorabat where the plains ofAssam start. At 10.30 a.m. the driver pulls up the Sumo at Paltan Bazar. He getsout with his bag and walks through the crowded area to the railway stationnearby. A monotonous drizzle lowers his spirits. It has rained here for the pastthree days too, and parts of the low-lying city are under water. It is not hot,but oppressively humid, and he takes off the green windcheater he had put on inShillong. He has to use an overbridge to get to the entrance of the station.Engines and coaches are lined up on the railway tracks and the low green hillsringing the city have splashes of yellow on them from the xonaru trees inbloom.

He waits for the train on platform no. 1 with the rest of the passengerswhile a group of Army jawans with AK-47s walk up and down the platformlooking for hidden bombs. At 12 noon there is still no sign of the train. Hereads another newspaper, drinks tea, walks around the platform. His enthusiasmfor the journey begins to melt away. Finally, at 2.30 p.m. the Brahmaputra Mailpulls into platform no. 1. He locates his second-class sleeper berth--15 in coachno. S4--without difficulty and shoves his bag under the single berth beside thewindows. 15 is confirmed on the chart; it had been RAC 38 when he had cut histicket three weeks ago in Shillong. He buys a bottle of mineral water for thejourney. The train starts moving at 3 p.m., a delay of two-and-a-half hours atthe start.

A while later they are thundering over the Saraighat bridge, the Brahmaputrabelow them, grey like the colour of the sky and impossibly vast. That passes,and then they are out in the green Assam countryside.

The compartment he is in is relatively uncrowded. The rush will come inBihar, which they will reach next morning. Above him, in berth 16, is aBengali from Silchar in Assam (M. Dey, 30, the chart had said) who works for theGREF at Leh; he is headed for Ambala in Punjab, and from there onto Leh. Hequeries Dey about Leh. People say it’s a place worth visiting. Dey, a quietslender man with a moustache, looks out of the window and shakes his head. There’snothing there, only bare mountains and stones, Dey says in the broken Assamesethey have been conversing in. Across the narrow aisle is a group of middle-agedRajasthani men and women who are returning from a marriage in Tinsukia in Assam.The women wear bright saris and anklets. There is also a talkative SpecialBranch person who will get down at Lucknow and who is posted at Badarpur inAssam. This person spreads alarm among the women with his stories of howmilitants terrorise Rajasthani traders in Assam.

The train halts for a while at Rangiya station. Some army men get on boardwith trunks. Two of them--sardars in civil dress--decide the compartment he is inlooks comfortable enough. One of them sits on the other side of the berthopposite him, the other sits across the aisle. This being a second-class coach,confirmed tickets do not count for much. The sardars are both young, around hisage, and quiet. He feels a certain affinity with them. They are going home toJallandhar in Punjab on two weeks leave after six months in Rangiya. He feelslike asking them what they think of Assam, but doesn’t. Maybe later. A TT, orticket collector, who is passing by asks the two sardars for their tickets. "Warranthai," they reply. The TT moves on, in search of wait-listed passengerswho will pay an extra hundred or two for a reservation.

Outside evening is falling; silver skies, boys playing football in a floodedfield. A pantry car attendant comes and takes his order for dinner. Theattendant gives him a choice among "sada, anda aur chicken". Hechooses anda. Before a small station called Nizsariha they pass at alevel-crossing a group of army men in fatigues carrying SLRs and an LMG. Bodocountry. On the whitewashed walls of a station whose name he doesn’t catch isscrawled in red: "DO OR DIE FOR KAMATAPUR!" He tries to remember who wantsKamatapur. The Koch-Rajbongshis? As darkness comes, fireflies flit about in thebamboo groves and ponds beside the tracks.

Sometime in the night they pass into West Bengal. The number of hawkersmoving through the compartment--peddling everything from boiled eggs to duplicateCDs--suddenly multiplies. He lies on his berth with his eyes closed, his bodyangled to accommodate the tall sardar opposite, and listens to the cries: "Chinavicks, China balm, ghari, calculator, walkman, two-in-one, cell-charger… bolen dada bolen … ghari hobe, calculator hobe …"A cool wind from the open window plays on his face.

He listens to the tall sardar carry on a prolonged negotiation with a hawkerfor a ‘two-in-one’, a strange contraception consisting of an emergency lightand a mono cassette player. The sardar finally gets it for Rs. 800, down from Rs.1,500. The other sardar across the aisle takes out a cassette and slips it intothe two-in-one. The songs are sparse and melancholy, nothing like the loudremixed bhangra he hears in cars in Delhi. These songs are about love and lossand parting; they sound like folk tunes and give him images of wheat fields,tractors, tall men and women.

After dinner he goes and washes in the dimly-lit toilet--which is alreadybeginning to smell--and comes back and lies down in his berth. The Rajasthanigroup are eating rotis with pickle and bhujiya. The two sardarshave disappeared with the two-in-one; they have gone to drink rum with theirfriends in another coach. He stretches out his legs and surrenders to the gentleshaking of the coach and the persistent ‘cha-chak-chak, cha-chak-chak’ ofthe wheels on the tracks.

But sleep eludes him. He is without a job. He has to start looking for oneagain once he reaches Delhi. But does he really want to be in Delhi anymore? Thelights in the compartment start going off by 10 p.m. Sometime in the night inthe dark the tall sardar returns and sits in a corner of his berth. The sardaris asleep after a while; he gets up and opens the window and smokes a cigarette.

At two in the morning they come to New Jalpaiguri. The station is deserted.He gets down and fills his mineral water bottle from one of the station taps andhas an omlette and a cup of tea at a stall. Tiredness makes him fall asleep oncethe train start moving.

***

Malda comes early next morning. They are still in West Bengal. Men with bagsslung on their shoulders and packets in their hands move from window to windowintoning "amer achar, amer achar." Most of the passengers are stillasleep. He gets down to stretch his legs. The early morning sky is overcast. Acool wind blows along the platform, along with a few drops of rain. Near wherehe stands on the platform a log fire burns fiercely beneath a huge iron cauldronfilled with chunks of tar. He wonders what it will be used for. An old man in awhite dhoti stands beside a kerosene stove and kettle singing "chai,chai-chai, chai, chai-chai."

By mid-morning they are in Bihar, where East gives way to North. Here toogrey skies. He wonders when he will see the sun again. He is tired of thejourney now, tired of his own company. In his bag is a Ludlum thriller he hasbrought along for the journey, but he feels incapable of concentrating now. Whathe sees outside doesn’t improve his mood. Untidy fields, banana plantationsand horrid looking villages with crumbling mud huts, buffaloes and people inrags. Little pendants of red cloth hang on poles above the huts. The towns andvillages they pass convey an impression of overgrown vegetation and decay, ofpeople living on the very edge of dignity.

They reach Bhagalpur station at 11 a.m. As the train slowly comes to a haltpeople shout and run up and down the platform alongside the train. Very soon thecoach is overrun by people flowing in with boxes and bundles and bags andsuitcases. They move forward slowly but surely, addressing objections frompassengers who are making the whole Guwahati-Delhi trip with "Adjust karlenge na. Adjust kar lenge." The tall sardar says to him, "Lo,Lalu ke desh pohunch gaye." The compartment he is in, meant for eightpeople, now holds nearly thirty. On his berth there are two Biharis, apart fromthe sardar. The newcomers make themselves comfortable in tiny spaces; they sitwith their hands on their knees and shiny faces blank, impervious to discomfort.Now the TTs are conspicuous by their absence.

It is getting hotter now. Presently the sky clears up and he sees the sun--after five days. No matter how many people there are in the compartment, thehawkers, with their thin bodies dripping sweat, manoeuvre through easily withtheir wares. The bananas and curd are good and cheap here in ‘Lalu ke desh’, he will concede. M. Dey is luxuriously stretched out in 16 above, sipping acold Pepsi and unaffected by the sea of humanity below. He feels a twinge ofenvy at Dey for getting the upper berth. He himself sits in a cramped positionlooking out at the passing countryside, hot air rushing in through the windows.

Among the crowd in the compartment adjoining his is a police constableholding a long lathi in one hand, and, in the other, a thick rope that islooped through the handcuffs of two prisoners wearing green lungis. Theunfortunate duo are lean and dark with shaven heads and sit comfortably onsomeone’s trunk. The constable talks to the prisoners confidingly,sympathetically; he even buys them some ‘chana mixture’ from ahawker. The three of them get off at a station before Patna.

Patna comes at 3 p.m. From the train it looks a mean and dirty city, hugecolour advertisments for ‘Rupa Underwear’ everywhere, on the sides ofbuildings and hoardings. A few more people get on, gratefully accepting theIndian Railways’ free hospitality, but most of the Bhagalpur crowd havealighted and things are more manageable in his compartment now. But the heat anddiscomfort of the journey are taking their toll. His body is stiff, and so arehis jeans, from dried sweat. The Special Branch person strips to a pair of longbriefs--he has a flabby middle and thin arms--and goes and takes a quick showerwith one of the hoses attached to the water pipes running above the tracks. Hecomes back with a smile on his face and urges everyone in the compartment to goand use the hose.

The train rattles on across Bihar as evening falls. It speeds past smallstations with names like Ghogra and Gunguniya and Ratanpur where crowds waitpatiently for other trains. An easy friendliness develops among the passengersin the compartment; they are nearly out of Bihar, and only one night throughUttar Pradesh lies between them and Delhi. The two sardars buy jamunsfrom a hawker and offer him some; he buys cucumbers and offers them some.

A man in the next compartment speaks loudly in Hindi to an appreciativeaudience about Nagaland. "Wahan log kutte zinda khaa jate hain."Another man in a vest retorts, "Arre, wahan to kutte dahej me diye jate hain."This causes much hilarity. The other person is from Guwahati, an employee ofAssam House in Delhi. The expert on Nagaland makes a tactical retreat, andchanges the topic to Mayawati’s politics.

***

As the sun goes down in the horizon the train crosses a bridge over a river.There are sandbanks aplenty in the shallow water; there hasn’t been much rainthis side. Small boys wash buffaloes at the river’s edge, and there areseveral wide boats plying across the water. The sinking sun gives a touch ofunreal beauty to the scene and he stares transfixed, the girders of the bridgerushing by.

He is filled with awe at the vastness of India. One could wander through itfor a lifetime and come to see--and understand--only a fraction of it.