As the train breezed through the rural indian setting, the usual city feel seemed to diminish. I gazed through the tinted window of my AC 3 tier compartment, and all I could see in mirror was me gazing though the window. Apart from my symmetrical image, I could see someone who sat at the side lower berth, hardly a meter away from where I sat. I could’nt help but stare at the starking similarity the lady possessed with someone I have known for in past. It seemed as if time has unbound itself, and I thought time was undoing what it had done. As the “Ankahee” song blared though my earphones, and in an attempt to kill the next few hours, I tried to recollect my 1st meeting with the “loveliest stranger” I had ever known.
It was more than 2 years that I have had a “more than decent” paying job and it was my usual planned trip to home. Unlike a few years back, I could afford the luxury of traveling in AC compartments now. Though all my journeys are over-hyped with most of my colleagues knowing about my travel plans, the anticipation goes for the toss in the actual travel. A train travel in India(even in AC coaches) mean a severe melodramatic experience. You get to face elder-lies/aged people who have an opinion in whatever crap happens in, around the journey, you get to hear family sagas, wailing children and free advices. What you get to see in movies/tele-serials, but that never happens in reality, is a good company(of-course I mean beautiful too). I often spoke in lighter vein that only Shahrukh Khan gets to meet beautiful women in train travel. My past experiences have taught me that train travels in India are mostly travails, and a travesty of what you anticipate or expect of.
I was in for a surprise that day. Perhaps it was the 1st instance, that I was just in time for boarding the train. It has never ever happened in past that I had boarded the train without scanning the Chart pasted next to the front door, looking mostly for F18 to F25s. As I settled in on my side upper berth, a voice startled me from my rear. I hated and still hate the side upper berth, they are short as compared to normal berths, doesn’t have a window or a charging point and worse puts you in lone corner with no one to talk to or look at. “Excuse me Black t-shirt, That’s my seat and I have a hell lot of luggage to keep in there”, the voice said from my rear. “Damn it.” I murmured. Another aunty cribbing for luggage space and who was it that called me Black t-shirt. It was not black, it was a dark grey. I was more offended with someone calling me by names than anything else. As I looked back, a young lady in her early 20s was trying hard to pull her gigantic trolley bag. What could be in there, I thought. “Wow” I said to myself and got on to side to let her get in the compartment. I was still in appreciation of her kohl lined eyes, glossy lips and her neatly tied hair when she snapped at me yet again. “Could you pull you bag out from here mister?”. One of the few instances when somebody called me a “Mister”. I completed her by saying “Uhmm…Its Mister Gaurav. In case you wanted to know!”. All I got was frowning smirk on her face which clearly and bluntly said “I am no interested”.
I quickly obliged her. I sat down closeby and watched from my corner of my eyes as she tried hard to fit in the trolley below the side lower berth. I could have helped her lest she asked for it. I never wanted to look desperate. She kicked her bag after another few attempts proved futile and looked at me in utter despair. “It doesn’t fit in” she said. Had it been a guy I would not have bothered to continue the conversation any further or worse would have replied “so, what should I do”. I smiled at her and offered a quick solution. “Why don’t you put your luggage on my seat, anyways the compartment is not much occupied, so I can sleep elsewhere”. Oh my God, this was the fastest I ever came with a plan, and I sounded like Buddha, forgive and sacrifice were what I was willing to do for the lady in despair. It was month after the incident, that I realised that she never thanked me for my masterplan. “Okay” was all that she said and lifted her luggage to place it on the upper berth.
“Damn, what did I get?” I thought, with my seat occupied by the “Lady is need’s extra heavy baggage” and I got to look for a seat to sleep on. I laid awake until midnight rolling over from one side to other cursing me for my benevolence I showed earlier. I was still trying to pursue myself justifying what I did earlier, having said that, I also felt disgust for the arrogant behaviour of the lady in question. Its funny how a perception of seeing or judging a person changes its sides in matter of few hours.
I was woken up very early in the morning by the TTE(train ticket examiner). His 1st question :”Do you have a reservation”. I was groggy, half asleep and this question made me go nuts. “Do I look like someone who would travel in AC without a reservation”. He was prompt to reply “Yes, youngsters like you try to do this all the time”. I explained him the situation earlier and he advised me to go to my berth as the occupant of that seat would be there shortly. “Who takes train so early in the morning?” I thought as I carried my affairs(read glasses, my phone and bottled water) to my original seat. I walked along the aisle as people snored and slept merrily. I swore to myself to throw that woman’s luggage off my seat and have a good nap. I didn’t want to look creepy when I reach my home. Now, the AC compartments have something which non AC coaches do not have, curtains. Apparently, they are meant to give its occupants privacy and keep others at bay. Am sure they never fulfil this purpose, but instead hide the seat numbers from someone looking for it. It would be a huge embarrassment if I would have pulled a curtain and found a different lady over there. More trouble if she thought I was a pervert and called out for help. I quickly made my calculations and figured where my seat was supposed to be. I took a deep breath, prepared myself to be straight onto matter and ask her to pull off her luggage and keep it elsewhere.
As I pulled the curtain, I saw her clung on to the sheets neatly with only her face popping out of it.”Wow, is she the snowhite I had read about in textbooks in Lower kinder gardens” . She was deep asleep and I guess even me checking her out went ignored. I didn’t knew how to wake her up. I felt stranded. Couldn’t wake her up, couldn’t sleep either. After hovering around the coach for 10 minutes, I lost my sleep, felt as if I had morning jog, and headed straight to the pantry coach to have my breakfast. I have always believed and felt that hunger is the cause of most distress in the world and a good food can resolve any problem, be it corruption or match fixing (depends entirely on the type of food one’s looking for). A sumptuous morning meal made me feel better, and I strolled back to my seat. “Oh, my God! Looks like she’s awake”, I said to myself on seeing the pulled apart curtains. Sun shone brightly off the tinted window panes and I saw her as she looked out in the east.
“Can I sit here. The place I slept is occupied now”, is how I literally pleaded to her interrupting her silent interaction with sun, just to sit on my legitimate seat. “Oh! Sure. Make yourself comfortable”. Comfortable? , did she ask me to make myself comfortable. I would be more comfortable lying down which would have certainly made her uncomfortable. I pulled up my legs and squatted looking out, though obviously gazing at her from the corner of my eyes. That’s the advantage of being myopic and wearing glasses. It’s difficult to make out where you exactly looking at. A women looks the most beautiful when she’s just out of the bed. The sun rays falling at her face, made her a photographer’s delight. Trying hard not to stare hard at her any further, I pulled out Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead” from my backpack. This is the book I carried in every train travel of mine, with a intention of finishing in a single read, but 2 years and umpteen journeys later, I still lagged somewhere in 300 –some pages. It was like Ekta Kapoor’s extra long tele soap. I had no idea what I had read 7 months back, but continued further just for the sake of finishing it. I tried hard to concentrate in the book, red a single paragraph thrice, but the words didn’t make any sense. I was about to close the book, when she initiated our first informal talk “Hows the book, looks quite intense”. That was one interesting question, to a person who was trying to figure out the same. College has been a stepping stone when it comes to getting in some real animated conversation, even if am not drunk. I always had an opinion, no matter I didn’t knew a thing about it. In the current case, I had read more than 300 pages which I might have forgotten, but they remained itched somewhere in my memory lanes. “Well, it a story of an intransigent young architect, his violent battle again conventional standards, and his explosive love affair with a beautiful women” , I said in a single go. This was the best I had ever spoken about anything and this came from a person who was critical of any living or non-living thing in the universe. “Hows the author, do you likes its style of writing?”, she probed further with a crafted smile on her face. “Amazing one” I said.” He wrote Atlas shrugged too, one of the best sellers of all times, you got to read it” I replied with extreme confidence. “Well, its not he, but she. Ayan rand is a lady”, she said and gave me one of the biggest shock of life. I laughed at my goof up and realized that this was the second time, I was fooled by these authors with western names. Way back in college, Sidney Sheldon who always had female protagonists, turned out to be a dude, and now this Ayan who write about a male turns to be a lady. What’s wrong with these people, I thought.
Taken aback with the disclosure of Ayan Rand’s gender, I preferred to cut my rant and silently drowned myself in the book back again. “Damn! You Fountain head. I swear I will not read anything other than Chetan Bhagat in train again”. “Its ok, even I thought she was a man until I read the Atlas shrugged”, she continued further. That was sweet welcoming gesture. I closed my book and said “So, what all do you apart from carrying heavy luggage and reading Ayan Rand’s classics”. She giggled and said “Yeah it is, but I always don’t have such heavy baggage’s”. I shot back saying “Don’t you have the bag stashed with cash and aren’t you a fugitive”, I tried being funny, but on seeing her reaction, I completed it “I am just kidding”. The literature’s best even invention, the word “Kidding”. You can literally escape of any dramatic, diplomatic and extreme situations, by telling you were just kidding. “I am a copyright intern at a law firm in Jubilee Hills. I just finished by masters and traveling back to my home with bags loaded with books” she said and smiled at me with a pride on her face. What the heck did a copyright intern did, but whatever it was it surely did damn pay well, i thought looking at her iphone, and Gucci bag near her. I nodded my head with no intention of telling what I did, as it was no way as smart as hers. However, she wanted me to blurt that out, though it was obvious just by looking at me. “Yeah, am an IT engineer, I work in Hitech city”, I mutely uttered looking down. I remember how my friends and relatives had asked me to do my masters after my graduation. I could figure out them laughing out loud pointing their fingers at me. She didn’t stop there, and said “What exactly you guys do on those computers, I never could figure that out”. Did I ask her what a copyright intern did. Damn! This woman’ curiosity!! Though I didn’t explain her with a keen interest, she tried following me whatever I spoke about code development and programming. “Wow, that sounds so very cool. You guys certainly are a productive bunch”. I felt as if somebody patted my back for my wonderful narration and I replied back with glint in my eyes “Isn’t it!. That is what we love about my job”. We laughed at it and for the next 4 hours we talked about almost everything, books, movies, actors, Indian railways, food servers in trains, IRCTC tatkal bookings, my and her friends, our college life, love life, future life and many more. What I still didn’t knew about her was her name, though she did tell me her mom called her “Nikky”, which I figured out was not her real name. She looked out for the 1st time in middle of our conversation and moved out of her seat. “Did you get so bored of talking to me that you are getting down”, I said. “No, nooo” she said. “I think my station is coming. I need to call my dad and freshen up before I get down. “Oh!” I said and there was sudden lull on my face as she left to “freshen” herself. She left her phone on the seat, and I had an unrelenting desire of looking though her phone. But the good vibes she left at me with her amazing talks, stopped me from pursuing my desires. The train slowed as the station closed in. She came just in time and I helped her with her luggage. I stood still as she started leaving. “I am Sneha. Look for Sneha Mittal on facebook and send me a friendship request. It was real good talking to you”. She said and shook hands with me for the 1st and last time. I stood like a jerk looking at her, without saying a word. I sat down preferring not to go out and confront her dad. I looked out of the tinted panes gazing her for probably the last time. Though I had hopes of finding her on facebook , but virtual friends never get real and I knew that for sure. As the train chugged, she looked at the window and batted her eye lids, bidding adieu. I sat there silently remembering the last 4-5 hrs I spent with her.
I don’t know if she lied or if I heard her name incorrectly, but I still search for her name every time I login to Facebook, yet hoping to find her. I certainly did not fall in love with her, but the time I spent with her, her talks, views made me fall in love with myself. She made me feel good and it was sheer selfishness of mine that I craved and still crave to find her.
