(SUMMER VACATION) IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT

"Papa, kya mummy aap ki godi mein baithe gi? (Papa, will mummy sit in your lap?)", said one of the two kids standing in the aisle to his skinny father trying to stash the luggage on the racks. They were about five rows ahead from where I was sitting in the chair car of the train. People occupying seats around that skinny man laughed in unduly high pitch. I knew the journey would be painful for the ears. Due to the summer vacations, I had seen a number of kids with their parents boarding the train.

Sitting next to me was a young mother with her three year old daughter occupying the window seat.  The lady was busy calling her friends to tell the features of the Vande Bharat train. Then she got a call from her husband. I couldn't help seeing the name blinking on the screen of the phone as 'Hubby Love'. That reminded me to snoop sometimes, to find what my name is stored as, in  my wife's mobile. I could guess that the 'Hubby Love' is only interested in knowing about his daughter.  The call was over in less than two minutes. As the girl tried to write something on the thin layer of dust on the window, the lady got worried or pretended to be so and said, "Haath dirty ho jayenge."(Your hands will get dirty)

The way she pronounced 'dirty' I knew the lady was pretending to be an angrej. Though her straightened highlighted hairs and garish lipstick was also pointing towards the same. The pronunciation of 'taichi' gave away that she was Punjabi, when she asked me to reorient her suitcase on the rack.  As the girl got restless, the lady said, “Bas nine o clock mamu station par aa jayenge.(Your maternal uncle will come to recieve on the railway station at 9 O'clock)”.

I could relate to the concern of the lady for the dirty hands of the girl. All the ladies want to present their children as well kempt to their mothers. Fifty five years ago my mother also tried that, in vain. After two days of journey in the  train with the steam engine, a thin soot used to settle on my face and hands. An hour before alighting my mother would try to scrub off that dust by using the last drops of water in the surahi (earthen pitcher). And then made me change to fresh clothes. But the dust while travelling on Tanga from the railway station, used to undo all the cleaning. The comments of my Naani used to be, “Ki munde nu habshi banaya hoya hai?"(Why have you kept the kid like an African black)”.

In that state of frustration my mother would slap me, though very lightly.  And of course Mamu was the last person one wanted to see as he would constantly  tease you. Maybe, due to such conditioning one could never feel anything called 'depression' in the later part of life.

Another mother in front was explaining to her children about the farmers working on the fields. Delhi kids were getting excited about that. A lady with two children aged two and three years  moved past. She opened the door of the lavatory and then closed it without moving in. She repeated the act again after two minutes. I could decipher her problem. So I walked up and stood next to her. She said, "Uncle ji can you look after my kids while I am in the loo?"

I nodded and stood guard on the tiny tots. No wonder they say 'the mother's job is the toughest.'

 When the snacks were served I could hear two boys fighting to get hold of the samosa  their mother didn't want to eat. 

The old couple sitting across the aisle refused to take the meals. But five minutes later they pulled out their packed breakfast. From the aroma oozing out of the packet I could guess that it was mirchi achar (chilli pickle) wrapped in paranthas. They opened the packet and I could see that it was indeed paranthas, mirchi achar and aloo ki sabzi. It was very   tempting. In those  moments of weakness I must have given an indication to the old couple that I want to share their meals. The couple offered a parantha and I accepted it without any hesitation. The yummy taste reminded me of the journeys of the past when we used to carry  paranthas, khasta puries, achar, shakarparas, kachories, namkeen and boiled eggs etc for the journey. The shortfall was made up by the lychees from Roorkee, or Mangos from Malihabad or the Peda from Mathura or the Petha from Agra.  The chant of ‘Chai, Chai’  used to be very soothing. The refilling of surahi with water at bigger halts was an adventure which the future generations cannot experience as the doors of the compartment automatically close before Vande Bharat starts rolling.

A loud debate between two men  broke my reverie.  One person was saying that the EBMs (EVM) were hackable. Other one was explaining the science, as to why it is not hack able.  So much was the intensity of the debate that the kids stopped making noise.

Generally, I start moving towards the door as the train approaches my destination. But today I refrained from doing so because I wanted the families with the kids to get down first.

While alighting, I saw that skinny man with  two sons and his wife in tow. The lady was three times the size of the man. That made me wonder as to why the child was asking about the lady sitting on his father’s lap. Maybe he thought  ‘My Papa is the strongest.'