This
piece was first written on 21st March 2010
The train
was waiting at the platform from as early 1620hrs. We’d actually made it on
time to Kalka after a slow descent from Shimla on the toy train, considering
the Himalayan Queen left the mountain town 25 later minutes than scheduled.
It was soon
to be a 6-hour ride in the second sitting compartment to New Delhi. My mum and
I settled ourselves into our seats next to the window. Actually, I was to rest
my butt along the aisle because we were to have someone in the middle. A quick
look at the passenger list next to the train door before we’d boarded gave us
an idea of who was going to be our t ravel companion: a man named Premchand. I
did not not take note of his age, which was likely printed in the very next
column. All the name gave us was an indication of what the seating arrangement
was to be like, and fodder for my often fertile imagination.
I got busy
trying to figure out which one of the men climbing into the compartment might
be Premchand. I pictured him to be someone mature. Then again, he could have
easily been a young man with a moustache in a neatly pressed shirt and pants.
But the number of elderly men that kept coming in began to chip away at this image.
Could it be
this old man, with snow-white hair with glasses perched on his relatively sharp
nose? Or the friend of the family sitting behind us, whom we’d seen loitering
around on the platform earlier? I just hoped it would not be the man standing
near the door whose mobile phone conversation was no longer secret.
At 1650hrs,
the train started pulling itself out of the station as lazily as the sun was
being swallowed up by the horizon. But where was Premchand, I turned and asked
my mum? Could he have missed the train by a whisker (maybe he was dragging heavy
bags)? What if someone else hops on and tries to claim his seat? Should I save
it for him? But how do you do something like this when you don’t even know who
it is you’re helping? My mum pointed out that he might be boarding at a later
station. Fair enough (I don’t know why this thought had not crossed my mind in
the first place).
A stop or
two later, a man in a white shirt calmly squeezed past a group that was trying
to get off the train. He had glasses on, and a moustache. Planting himself
comfortably next to me, he gave himself all but two seconds before turning to
me to ask for my seat number (I was in his seat). Before I could finish
explaining my trespass, he understood that the lady next to the window and I were
travelling together. ‘No problem,’ he said, before whipping out his mobile
phone to inform someone at the other end that he had gotten into the train. At
this point, I turned to my mum, and as discreetly as possible, pointed my right
index finger in his direction: ‘Premchand!’
We love taking photos of people. I do too. Here's a first collection from my trips.
