My First and Last Train Journey
Those days there were only two or three trains that laboured past our field billowing thick, black plumes. The railway tracks ran parallel to our tiny, oblong paddy field in Venmanam, our sleepy hamlet near Kadambathur. Our county was steep and much above the sea level, so two steam engines pulled about ten wagons; one of the engines vanished the moment the trains hit the plains. Ever since I was about five, for over forty years now, I ardently longed to travel by train, at least once. My closest call with the trains was when they, forced by red signal, came to a screeching halt. My father used to ask me to carry some water in earthen pots for the thirsty drivers and, now and again, for the well-fed stallions that were transported to the racecourses in Bangalore; I grew up quenching their thirst.
My father’s property consisted of this tiny piece of land and a pair of skinny oxen. If we could keep the entire yield, the paddy would last for a whole year for three of us but we had to barter half of it for other essentials. The prices of other basics, like lentils and edible oils, were always dearer, thus we always lived off borrowed stuff. Though it was our staple food, rice was too bland to eat without sambar curry. But for several months in a year, that is exactly what we did; eating rice soaked in well water. ‘Soft, macerated rice is more nutritious than any other food,’ we told ourselves like our forefathers did ever since their arrival from Africa. And we felt strong while working in marshy fields. Stronger than the days when we ate cooked meat, peas, lentils or beans.
Our thatched hut, sited in a corner of our paddy field, and the well that abutted it were the only two worlds I knew until I turned eight; that was when I met Kutty, my only friend up until last year. It was Kutty who had told me about the ‘disappearance’ of one of the engines after the trains hit the plains. Engine vanishing in the plains was another mystery that turned my wish more fervent. He knew exactly how far were the cities of Madras and Bangalore, the time it took to reach by train, bus and where the film stars lived. His knowledge about such and many other interesting things was amazing; he was my encyclopaedia.
He loved diving and swimming in our big well that was too deep and dark. His dives produced incredibly slight splashes and my father always said that he had a unique ‘aqua-dynamic’ body; something you don’t feel when you see Michael Phelps’ lanky, edgy frame. Kutty and I used to ‘disappear’ into nearby woods and spend whole days. Hungry after hours of swimming and diving, we used to savour the taste of free, unlimited portions of wild fruits and berries. He was the one who, once when we were deep inside the bushes, revealed about the ‘thing’ that happens between man and wife. ‘Possibility of such a ‘thing’ happening between boys and girls cannot be ruled out,’ he claimed. The ‘possibility’ thing excited us more than the man and wife stuff. We were about twelve then and soon after that, since he could read Tamil, he used to get hold of ‘those’ books from walkways of Tiruvallur, and, after ensuring that we were perched steady enough on a tree top, used to read out the steamy stories.
Kutty’s father, Rajan Master, was a respected maths teacher in a government school in Tiruvallur, a nearby town but, as the Tamil saying went, vadhiyar magan makku Kutty’s tryst with letters ended even before he completed three years of schooling. Like millions of young Indian students from hinterlands, he too was a victim of an arithmetic teacher’s cane; morbid fear of corporal punishment kept Kutty from attending classes for months together. Rajan Master’s only dream was to get his son educated in Madras so that, one day, he can become an IAS officer. Rajan Master tried all three Hindu ways saama to danda to discipline Kutty but in vain; Kutty carries scars, lashes and bruises to the day. The day Kutty turned eighteen; his father stopped talking to him, his mother became the mediator for all practical purposes.
After my father’s death, I, all of sixteen, had to take care of our paddy field and oxen. I was left with very little time to spend with Kutty in the bushes. Being an extrovert, Kutty befriended several boys in no time and, I was told by his moaning father much later, he also befriended several women far older than himself. Within a year, the gang, led by Kutty, was involved in several cases of waywardness and, in a case of sexual molestation, was put behind bars. The gang was let out only after Rajan Master’s jameen bail plea was accepted. Within a week, Rajan Master barely survived a triple bypass surgery.
Just after my marriage, when I was just twenty three, my mother passed away. Within three years after that, even before I knew, my family of three entrenched itself into the only vicious circle I inherited; bartering half of the yield and living off borrowed stuff for half of the year. Year by year, yields were dwindling but my debts were mounting. Though I inherited illiteracy passed on by my father, debts or no debts, the willpower to send my son not only to school but all the way to college shocked every one of my relatives.
Meanwhile Kutty’s playboyish reputation had reached all the padinettu patty eighteen hamlets surrounding Kadambathur. The infamy was upsetting Rajan Master’s convalescing health and agitated relatives persuaded Kutty to move to the coastal town of Madras, the southern commercial and celluloid capital, in search of work. Getting a job in Madras, entire village believed, would not be a difficult task for a boy as versatile and gifted as Kutty was. I went to Tiruvallur station to bid him adieu. That was the first time I entered a railway station. And that was the first time I saw someone as intimate as Kutty board a train and, with him physically inside the compartment, the prospects of my turn seemed all the more plausible.
There was no news of him for over five years and then, one fine morning, while I was tilling, Kutty jumped on to one of my oxen. The startled bull did not dislodge him. Everything about him had changed so much that I took a minute more than the bull to make out; he looked a thoroughbred city dweller. Even his Tamil accent had changed. He flaunted photographs of himself posing along with prominent film stars. He said he was assisting a celebrated film director and, within a year more, he is likely to direct a Tamil movie on his own. He also said he has acquired a car and a bungalow in Madras and showed photographs to that effect too. There after he visited our village every year with different set of photographs and news of latest cars.
With his son’s image improving among the villagers, Rajan Master was recuperating well. Within weeks, he began giving free tuitions to poor students, my son included. Under his tutelage, my son performed phenomenally well in his public examinations. Rajan Master was so impressed with my son’s centum scores that he gifted a bicycle. After he topped his secondary school, knowing my pathetic pecuniary condition, it was Rajan Master who had taken all the pains to petition the collector of Tiruvallur district to provide special educational aid to send him to a college in Coimbatore.
The day my son was leaving for Coimbatore, Rajan Master had come to Tiruvallur railway station. When the train was about to leave the station, Rajan Master turned emotional and hugged my son, kissed and blessed him. I knew Rajan Master was seeing his own son, Kutty, in my son. Touched by his tenderness, I too cried. Though I could not board a train all my life, I was ecstatic that my young son was making it. And with my son actually boarding a train, the prospects of my turn, undoubtedly, seemed too bright more than ever before. Compared to my younger days, the number and frequency of trains had increased. And the trains became colourful and the people who travelled by them looked well-fed. Those days, while the trains that carried passengers and goods lethargically passed my field, these days they were whizzing past before I ploughed a couple of meters. With the speed of trains increasing beyond belief, the mystery of vanishing engines was becoming increasingly mystifying.
While in his third year of college, one day my son brought over some of his classmates to our village to take part in some rural project work. He was leading the group. He was guiding them and all of them were intently listening. Some of the students were from very rich families and looked, obviously, well-fed since their childhood. Though my son looked physically smaller, weaker than most of them, he looked healthier than he was three years ago; obviously the hostel food was better than what he had to eat at home.
My son topped his college and was awarded a gold medal; everyone said that he would go places. Even after completing his degree, he stayed on applying for jobs in Coimbatore. Three months later, one of his professors counselled him to try his luck in Madras. Since I knew no one in Madras, I gave Kutty’s address so that he can stay with him and try. Though there was no news of him or his efforts for several months, given that he was staying with Kutty, I was not really worried.
Six months later, late last year, late in the evening, a telegram shocked us with the news of my son’s hospitalisation. The three trains that went to Madras had left by then, depriving me the opportunity of demystifying the enigma of vanishing engines. I reached Madras by a truck that carried vegetables to see my son lying, on the mucky floor of the general hospital, like a vegetable. He had turned too skinny and his eye sockets looked too deep and dark. There was hardly anything left between his skin and bones and his supple skin felt as hard as dressed hide. I could see death dancing on his pupils that were gazing at god. Scores of grieving relatives of other patients were moving about but not a soul near my abandoned son. Everyone could see that he was breathing but everyone also knew that he won’t be for long. An abandoned but slightly better patient said that my son was lying in that naked state for four, five days now. He also said that someone called Kutty had died of AIDS a few days ago. Kutty’s body too was lying in the same condition for a week until he died and his orphaned body was removed to a mortuary where unclaimed bodies rested for a few days, I was told. No one fed my son for four or five days now. More people die in Indian hospitals down to lack of food than of dreadful diseases. And outside the hospitals, out in the country, more people died of simple ailments than of chronic hunger. No one bothered to even try to treat my son. The hospital staff knew that it was only a matter of hours. And the hour was in the coming for four days now.
Looking at my son’s terrible condition and the empty gaze that gave away so much, I too was sure that he may not breathe for long and the hour was not too far. Having known the unpredictability of life, death and monsoons only too well, back in the countryside, I also knew that the hour may come today, after one, five or ten years. But that was equally true about perfectly healthy people too. I boarded the train for the first and last time with my son on a stretcher.
For over a year now, my son is still breathing but only breathing. He is fed liquids by his mother thrice a day.
Ram Govardhan’s first novel Rough with the Smooth was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize. Writing is his nocturnal passion and he is currently scripting his second novel and a bunch of short stories. A post-graduate in sociology, he is a quality controller with Hansa Research Group Private Limited, Madras, India. Email: ram.govardhan@yahoo.co.in
Those days there were only two or three trains that laboured past our field billowing thick, black plumes. The railway tracks ran parallel to our tiny, oblong paddy field in Venmanam, our sleepy hamlet near Kadambathur. Our county was steep and much above the sea level, so two steam engines pulled about ten wagons; one of the engines vanished the moment the trains hit the plains. Ever since I was about five, for over forty years now, I ardently longed to travel by train, at least once. My closest call with the trains was when they, forced by red signal, came to a screeching halt. My father used to ask me to carry some water in earthen pots for the thirsty drivers and, now and again, for the well-fed stallions that were transported to the racecourses in Bangalore; I grew up quenching their thirst.
My father’s property consisted of this tiny piece of land and a pair of skinny oxen. If we could keep the entire yield, the paddy would last for a whole year for three of us but we had to barter half of it for other essentials. The prices of other basics, like lentils and edible oils, were always dearer, thus we always lived off borrowed stuff. Though it was our staple food, rice was too bland to eat without sambar curry. But for several months in a year, that is exactly what we did; eating rice soaked in well water. ‘Soft, macerated rice is more nutritious than any other food,’ we told ourselves like our forefathers did ever since their arrival from Africa. And we felt strong while working in marshy fields. Stronger than the days when we ate cooked meat, peas, lentils or beans.
Our thatched hut, sited in a corner of our paddy field, and the well that abutted it were the only two worlds I knew until I turned eight; that was when I met Kutty, my only friend up until last year. It was Kutty who had told me about the ‘disappearance’ of one of the engines after the trains hit the plains. Engine vanishing in the plains was another mystery that turned my wish more fervent. He knew exactly how far were the cities of Madras and Bangalore, the time it took to reach by train, bus and where the film stars lived. His knowledge about such and many other interesting things was amazing; he was my encyclopaedia.
He loved diving and swimming in our big well that was too deep and dark. His dives produced incredibly slight splashes and my father always said that he had a unique ‘aqua-dynamic’ body; something you don’t feel when you see Michael Phelps’ lanky, edgy frame. Kutty and I used to ‘disappear’ into nearby woods and spend whole days. Hungry after hours of swimming and diving, we used to savour the taste of free, unlimited portions of wild fruits and berries. He was the one who, once when we were deep inside the bushes, revealed about the ‘thing’ that happens between man and wife. ‘Possibility of such a ‘thing’ happening between boys and girls cannot be ruled out,’ he claimed. The ‘possibility’ thing excited us more than the man and wife stuff. We were about twelve then and soon after that, since he could read Tamil, he used to get hold of ‘those’ books from walkways of Tiruvallur, and, after ensuring that we were perched steady enough on a tree top, used to read out the steamy stories.
Kutty’s father, Rajan Master, was a respected maths teacher in a government school in Tiruvallur, a nearby town but, as the Tamil saying went, vadhiyar magan makku Kutty’s tryst with letters ended even before he completed three years of schooling. Like millions of young Indian students from hinterlands, he too was a victim of an arithmetic teacher’s cane; morbid fear of corporal punishment kept Kutty from attending classes for months together. Rajan Master’s only dream was to get his son educated in Madras so that, one day, he can become an IAS officer. Rajan Master tried all three Hindu ways saama to danda to discipline Kutty but in vain; Kutty carries scars, lashes and bruises to the day. The day Kutty turned eighteen; his father stopped talking to him, his mother became the mediator for all practical purposes.
After my father’s death, I, all of sixteen, had to take care of our paddy field and oxen. I was left with very little time to spend with Kutty in the bushes. Being an extrovert, Kutty befriended several boys in no time and, I was told by his moaning father much later, he also befriended several women far older than himself. Within a year, the gang, led by Kutty, was involved in several cases of waywardness and, in a case of sexual molestation, was put behind bars. The gang was let out only after Rajan Master’s jameen bail plea was accepted. Within a week, Rajan Master barely survived a triple bypass surgery.
Just after my marriage, when I was just twenty three, my mother passed away. Within three years after that, even before I knew, my family of three entrenched itself into the only vicious circle I inherited; bartering half of the yield and living off borrowed stuff for half of the year. Year by year, yields were dwindling but my debts were mounting. Though I inherited illiteracy passed on by my father, debts or no debts, the willpower to send my son not only to school but all the way to college shocked every one of my relatives.
Meanwhile Kutty’s playboyish reputation had reached all the padinettu patty eighteen hamlets surrounding Kadambathur. The infamy was upsetting Rajan Master’s convalescing health and agitated relatives persuaded Kutty to move to the coastal town of Madras, the southern commercial and celluloid capital, in search of work. Getting a job in Madras, entire village believed, would not be a difficult task for a boy as versatile and gifted as Kutty was. I went to Tiruvallur station to bid him adieu. That was the first time I entered a railway station. And that was the first time I saw someone as intimate as Kutty board a train and, with him physically inside the compartment, the prospects of my turn seemed all the more plausible.
There was no news of him for over five years and then, one fine morning, while I was tilling, Kutty jumped on to one of my oxen. The startled bull did not dislodge him. Everything about him had changed so much that I took a minute more than the bull to make out; he looked a thoroughbred city dweller. Even his Tamil accent had changed. He flaunted photographs of himself posing along with prominent film stars. He said he was assisting a celebrated film director and, within a year more, he is likely to direct a Tamil movie on his own. He also said he has acquired a car and a bungalow in Madras and showed photographs to that effect too. There after he visited our village every year with different set of photographs and news of latest cars.
With his son’s image improving among the villagers, Rajan Master was recuperating well. Within weeks, he began giving free tuitions to poor students, my son included. Under his tutelage, my son performed phenomenally well in his public examinations. Rajan Master was so impressed with my son’s centum scores that he gifted a bicycle. After he topped his secondary school, knowing my pathetic pecuniary condition, it was Rajan Master who had taken all the pains to petition the collector of Tiruvallur district to provide special educational aid to send him to a college in Coimbatore.
The day my son was leaving for Coimbatore, Rajan Master had come to Tiruvallur railway station. When the train was about to leave the station, Rajan Master turned emotional and hugged my son, kissed and blessed him. I knew Rajan Master was seeing his own son, Kutty, in my son. Touched by his tenderness, I too cried. Though I could not board a train all my life, I was ecstatic that my young son was making it. And with my son actually boarding a train, the prospects of my turn, undoubtedly, seemed too bright more than ever before. Compared to my younger days, the number and frequency of trains had increased. And the trains became colourful and the people who travelled by them looked well-fed. Those days, while the trains that carried passengers and goods lethargically passed my field, these days they were whizzing past before I ploughed a couple of meters. With the speed of trains increasing beyond belief, the mystery of vanishing engines was becoming increasingly mystifying.
While in his third year of college, one day my son brought over some of his classmates to our village to take part in some rural project work. He was leading the group. He was guiding them and all of them were intently listening. Some of the students were from very rich families and looked, obviously, well-fed since their childhood. Though my son looked physically smaller, weaker than most of them, he looked healthier than he was three years ago; obviously the hostel food was better than what he had to eat at home.
My son topped his college and was awarded a gold medal; everyone said that he would go places. Even after completing his degree, he stayed on applying for jobs in Coimbatore. Three months later, one of his professors counselled him to try his luck in Madras. Since I knew no one in Madras, I gave Kutty’s address so that he can stay with him and try. Though there was no news of him or his efforts for several months, given that he was staying with Kutty, I was not really worried.
Six months later, late last year, late in the evening, a telegram shocked us with the news of my son’s hospitalisation. The three trains that went to Madras had left by then, depriving me the opportunity of demystifying the enigma of vanishing engines. I reached Madras by a truck that carried vegetables to see my son lying, on the mucky floor of the general hospital, like a vegetable. He had turned too skinny and his eye sockets looked too deep and dark. There was hardly anything left between his skin and bones and his supple skin felt as hard as dressed hide. I could see death dancing on his pupils that were gazing at god. Scores of grieving relatives of other patients were moving about but not a soul near my abandoned son. Everyone could see that he was breathing but everyone also knew that he won’t be for long. An abandoned but slightly better patient said that my son was lying in that naked state for four, five days now. He also said that someone called Kutty had died of AIDS a few days ago. Kutty’s body too was lying in the same condition for a week until he died and his orphaned body was removed to a mortuary where unclaimed bodies rested for a few days, I was told. No one fed my son for four or five days now. More people die in Indian hospitals down to lack of food than of dreadful diseases. And outside the hospitals, out in the country, more people died of simple ailments than of chronic hunger. No one bothered to even try to treat my son. The hospital staff knew that it was only a matter of hours. And the hour was in the coming for four days now.
Looking at my son’s terrible condition and the empty gaze that gave away so much, I too was sure that he may not breathe for long and the hour was not too far. Having known the unpredictability of life, death and monsoons only too well, back in the countryside, I also knew that the hour may come today, after one, five or ten years. But that was equally true about perfectly healthy people too. I boarded the train for the first and last time with my son on a stretcher.
For over a year now, my son is still breathing but only breathing. He is fed liquids by his mother thrice a day.
Ram Govardhan’s first novel Rough with the Smooth was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize. Writing is his nocturnal passion and he is currently scripting his second novel and a bunch of short stories. A post-graduate in sociology, he is a quality controller with Hansa Research Group Private Limited, Madras, India. Email: ram.govardhan@yahoo.co.in
