The man on platform 8

I fondly remember a story by Ruskin Bond which we read in class IXth titled 'The woman on platform 8'. A teenager Ravi is going back from home to his hostel by train. The train is late, and he's got to wait for some three odd hours. A serene lady draped in an equally serene white saree approaches him, talks to him, and takes him with her to eat jalebis. Then comes his classmate Satish with his paranoid and practical mother. The woman in white saree assumes the role of Ravi's mother so that he doesn't have to feel embarrased about the fact that no one came to drop him to the station. Satish's mother once says, among all other worldly wisdom of hers, that the world is bad, and one needs to be beware of strangers. Ravi cuts her short avowing his likeness for strangers. When the train comes, she asks her son Satish to take care of sundry things, giving him some food stuff to eat on the way. The woman asks Ravi to take care of himself. Ravi acknowledges her affection by kissing her on the cheek and saying, "Goodbye mother."  

In the discussions we had in the class over the reason of the woman's benevolence and shower of affection upon Ravi, the conclusion that was put forth was something about the woman having lost a son of about that age, and seeing him in Ravi. Now I feel that this conclusion almost does away with the whole purpose of the story. The story, as I perceive it, is more about a universal form of affection and love that transcends all barriers.

I was on my way from Mumbai to Delhi, boarded on the Indian Railways. I felt quite bored after listening to and talking the conventional middle class talk with a family, whose son is an engineering student in IP college. They insisted that their son talk to me to obtain some tips for placements. I counselled him. When I realised that it had been quite enough for me and the boy, I climbed the upper berth to put myself to sleep. I see these young, naughty girls perched on the side upper birth, constantly laughing and fighting among themselves. I casually say hi to them, and get introduced. The elder one, aged around 11, is named Saba. I can't remember the name of the other one who is around two years younger. They are going to their maternal uncle's place with their mother and a still younger sister, an infant, seated right below.

The conversation takes no time to catch up. They have had an argument over a G.K. question which appeared in the little girl's test in school. They ask me for the answer. When the little girl discovers that she did it wrong, she animatedly lets out a sigh of disappointment. They tell me about their favourite tandoori chicken with such vivid expressions of relishing even the thought of it, and their favourite place in Mumbai being some Thakur's Mall at Meera Road. They tell me about their visit to Red Fort and Qutub Minar. I ask them if they have been to other places in Delhi like Tajmahal. They point out that the Taj is in Agra. I counter them saying that it's been shifted to Delhi. They look confused for a moment. Then when the smile emanating from the corner of my lips gives it away, they burst laughing, declaring that they are not going to get fooled and that they know for sure that it's in Agra. A pantry guy roams the alley with shouts of 'garam chai' (hot tea). I get a tea for myself. To amuse the kids, I surprise him by saying 'muhtaram ka inayat ke liye shukriya' (thank you monsieur for your kindness). He looks me into the face nonplussed. The girls, who I rightly guessed to have inherited some knowledge of Urdu from their brilliant mother, grasp the meaning quite a bit and chuckle for long at his perplexity. I explain the meaning to him before he heads to the next compartment.

I have gathered from whatever I heard their mother speak while sitting down that she is deemed absolutely fit to play the role of Satish's mother, and anytime, she would blare a siren asking the girls not to talk to me. I think that I would fend her off on account of some kind of a right induced by a strong universal affection which I feel for my sweet young bubbly mates. I would tell her not to bother us, and go to sleep while letting us enjoy our chit-chat. At this moment, she looks up. Probably my feeling gets commuted to her in a mysterious manner because she says nothing and resumes playing with the infant in her arms. I catch a glance of 'Moby Dick' and 'The wizard of Oz' in a corner of their bag. Saba takes out 'The wizard of Oz' and starts reading it out, asking me the meaning of the difficult words she comes across. I avoid  her the trouble by taking the book, and reading it out to them. I explain it to them with voice modulations and gesticulations of my hands. They listen to me entranced, their enamour showing itself in their looks of surprise, awe or giggles as the story progresses. By now, the paranoid unrest broiling in the mother seems to have reached a high level. She vents it out through an excuse that other people are getting disturbed in their sleep. Considering her having made an excuse instead of directly telling me to stop or telling them to sleep, I realize that I was not wrong about the silent communion of my feeling to her. I insist on completing the chapter. After I have finished, they are still in no mood to sleep, but the mother's order bids them to lie down willy-nilly. Yet the little girl silently moves her lips to say something to me. I point with a finger on my lips and then my hands under my bent face, motioning to her to keep quiet and sleep. She keeps peering from under the blanket making faces. I also make faces at her and  the muffled sound of her laughter keeps coming from under the blanket. Finally I suggest to her that let's meet Dorothy, the protagonist in the novel, in our dreams. The idea catches her imagination, lulling her to sleep.

Yesterday evening I watched Philadelphia. Andrew Beckett (Tom Hanks), a successful lawyer is a homosexual. He is fired from his firm on some petty excuse, when they discover his sexuality and the terrible disease AIDS he is afflicted with. Miller (Denzel Washington) refuses to take up his case on account of his bias against homosexuals. However, when he spots him later in a library doing research on AIDS and the corresponding laws, to fight his own case, there is something that stirs in Miller. He argues the case for him, and makes the employers pay the punitive damages. The movie takes its toll on me. It moves me. It makes my heart heavy partly because of the amazing portrayal of sentiments, and partly because of that scene. I am enthralled when I see Tom Hanks in that scene when he is distressed, listens to a song and gets completely immersed in it. It's definitely one of the best scenes that I have watched in any of the movies I have ever seen, and Tom Hanks is, for sure, unbeatable. It sends that craving of acting down my spine and makes me realise how far I stand from something like being in this wonderful scene. So, I go to a park, rethink my thoughts and strategies, and reassure myself about being on the right track. 

Tents have been erected in the nearby apartment. The dj is blaring out loud music. I guess it to be someone's wedding. As I march down the road, I see many such celebrations, and realise that it's Lohri. People are warming their hands sitting near bonfires, eating revdi, gazzak and groundnuts. They are laughing and dancing on the drumbeats. Several trays with sumptous food are lined on the table waiting to be devoured. I feel sad like a little child around whom there are lots of lights, lamps and crackers burning on Diwali, but he's got just nothing. I look at them, and walk the road so as to pass from near them in the stupid hope that someone would stop me and say, "Hey boy, why are you standing there, huh? Come on, join in. I am sure you know how to dance a beat or two." But they nullify my hopes while standing upright on my expectations. So I plan to excuse myself of my regular eating place, and decide to go out to have good food.

I reach a restaurant (or shall I say dhaba). As I am about to take my seat on a table, I feel someone tugging at my jacket. I look back to find a kid looking at me. He murmurs something I am not able to make out. I bend down to bring my ear near him. He says, "....Goodday...". I find it slightly incomprehensible, since the yearning in his soft quavering voice makes it clear to me that he is not intending to wish me a good day. He points out to the sweetshop in front, on the other side of the road and says it again trying to be clearer, "Good day biscuit. From that shop." Ahh! I look at him. It's nothing like begging. He isn't even requesting. It's something totally different.  He well exerts his right holding my hand to walk with him to the shop. I worry for an instance if he's not lost. I ask where his parents are. He points to a stout woman with a white cloth tied on her head, standing on the outside of restaurant, remarking that mother has got no money. Since he wants to eat goodday biscuits and mother has got no money, I should get it for him. I have never heard an argument more logical than this and he puts it forward in such a natural, nothing-out-of-the-way manner that it's just not possible for me to refuse. As the shopkeeper shows me the packet, he literally jumps with joy saying, "Yeah, this is the one." He flashes a beautiful immaculate smile while taking hold of it, and runs away.

I am so happy that he hasn't learnt saying 'thank you'. I don't understand why people think that they could call you after a long long time, say that you've forgotton them, beat around the bush for a while asking about your well-being, then tell that they've got some business with you, and expect you to do it for them in return for a formal, courteous, dried-out 'thank you'. My shrewdness gets awakened on their touch. I tell them not to worry, and that I would do it, while I say in my mind, "To hell with you, man." I wish someone could hold a mirror for them to gaze at their own impertinence. May be I would do something for them if they spare the shrewd, extra-friendly part and merely tell me what is it that they want. Well anyways, I saw this surge of life in this little kid, and I found myself becoming a part of it.

As I return on my table, his mother is getting her order from the restaurant packed. He is standing beside her, and tugs on her sleeve laughing and pointing to me, to show me to her as an acknowledgement. But his grim mother has grown too old to understand this small thing - this affinity of ours. I am relieved that she doesn't look at me. Who knows, she might conclude that I did it out of charity, or she might be embarrased of her inability to get biscuits for him or still worse, she might think that I have lost a son of about that age, and see his face in any kid. I am scared that she might say 'thank you' and spoil it all. Well, she doesn't look towards me, and leaves with the kid after receiving her complete order. 

This day, I am the man on platform 8. At other times, people have done heart-touching things for me without expecting anything in return. On my first five-day wandering, I was an amateurish backpacker. It din't even occur to me to get a blanket with me in the month of January. So, on the second night of my journey, I am lying on the wooden berth freezing, trying hard to sleep. I wear a pyjama on top of my jeans, and another shirt on my pullover, but my teeth won't stop cluttering. I just lie in a half-trance with my eyes shut and my body bent double.

The faint sunshine wakes me in the morning. I have slept well owing to a blanket I find myself covered with. The man sitting below sees that I am awake and smiles at me as if to say 'good morning'. While I am still puzzled about the source of the blanket, he casually remarks that the night was quite cold, and I was shivering. I hand out the blanket to him. He just did it out of sheer concern and affection, which I don't want to repay, because I know I can't, with a 'thank you'. He is anyways a villager from Rajasthan, and doesn't know this language. His wife is there with him. I sit with them and talk about various things. I reach Jodhpur next night. Another guy, who I got acquainted with in the train, offers me shelter for the night. He entreats me with food and in the morning, he, a cousin of his and I eat sweets before I say goodbye to leave for my next destination Jaisalmer.

It's a great feeling - meeting men and women on platform 8, and sometimes being in that position yourself. In such a case, you are never lonely, as the whole world moves with you. A wise old Indian saying of a thousand years sums it up in a nutshell - 'Vasudhaev Kutumbkum', meaning to say that the world itself is a family.

It's not that strange but a bit that a singer from the west understands and echoes this sentiment from the east so perfectly. A few lines from John Lennon's song 'Imagine' -

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one