A few of us met on 17th August, 2026 in Delhi. The regulars at our regular place. We had two new entrants. Ritik Pandey from 2018 batch. And Rajkumar Kar from 1994 batch. Rajkumar and I go back centuries. Our fathers were batchmates in Chittranjan Locomotive Apprenticeship Program (or whatever they used to call it then), sometime in the mid-1960s. Rajkumar’s father continued at the Chittaranjan Workshop. I don’t remember how and why, my father somehow managed to actually go and teach in Oak Grove for a few years (1968-72). Rajkumar and Jayanti (my elder sister) joined OG together in 1986 in Cl IV & III respectively. We had gone to drop them to Jharipani. I have been reminded a million times of how I slipped & fell in the moss-laden swampy puddle on the Camel’s Back top during that trip. The next year, Monisha (Rajkumar’s elder sister) & I joined OG in Cl VIII and Cl IV respectively. Some lovely trips, stories and memories between our families. Not today.
Our Monday
meeting wasn’t planned as such. Boys had not met well over 3 months. Batteries
were drying up. We wanted to meet eagerly. We had added Ritik into the NCR
WhatsApp Group only a few days ago. And suddenly as we were discussing meeting
up, someone added Rajkumar’s number! What a splendid surprise. Rajkumar had
left school in 1993. We did not meet until 1997 I guess. It was the trip to
finalize Monisha and Prithviraj’s wedding. Another fantastic trip and awesome
memories. Not today.
On
Monday, once at the venue, post the usual first 10-minute leg pulling of who
has a bigger paunch and a tiny penis, a larger butt and smaller fingers, we
settled. Old times talk started. And Rajkumar reminded us of a late night train
journey incident involving him and I. This is today!
It was
1991. The Mandal Commission protests had erupted across the country. In Jharipani,
most of us understood approximately nothing about reservations, commissions or
national politics. Our idea of current affairs was whether a senior had finally
taken bath after 23 days of hibernation, someone had broken up with an
imaginary girlfriend, or whether this month it will be fish in place of chicken
in the special dinner. However, the tension outside the school gates had to eventually
reach us. School closed suddenly, and children were to be sent home. This is where
Mr. R K Mallick (my father) enters the story. Less like a father and more like
the Global Guardian of the boys and girls traveling on Doon Express (9up/10
down). I believe, Doon Express terminates couple of stations before Doon now, to
manage rail traffic and ease passenger commotion. Mr. Mallick was now responsible
for over 50+ boys & girls. He had to get them safely out of School and take
them up to Lucknow railway station, where they would be handed over to the next
set of global guardians up to their final destination in Bihar (and some parts
of now what is Jharkhand). Imagine the trust and confidence parents had on each
other. The sense of belief that a set of people, with shared-yet-broken travel
time responsibility, will take equal amount of care and caution and bring my
child through this 1500-2000 kms journey. And the conviction on the institution
they were working in, the Indian Railways cannot go wrong! How do they reach
Doon station from school? What about their luggage, snacks, dinner or if
anything goes wrong? This was not the first time that another parent was
guarding and bringing another child. Only this time the scale was different. All
was the responsibility of one/few people and it was OK. No guilt. No one’s
fault. It was all collective responsibility. Rare today. Before the train took
off, dinner had to be arranged for this army of hungry kids? I am guessing,
perhaps, in that time of calculations and assuming some unforeseen eventuality,
my father would have handed over INR 50/- to me. Honestly, I don’t remember.
Burt, so many children, so few people to oversee, it was a riot in the coach.
And zero accident! Everyone was counted, fed, seated, provided a place to
stretch and sleep.
A boarding-school
child will tell you that the definition of an ‘emergency’ is extremely
flexible. Rajkumar and I discovered that our emergency was hunger. We were very
hungry. Naturally, we were on the same berth. We controlled telling each other
first. Then, once trauma was shared, we controlled doing anything about it.
What could we on a moving train. Suddenly, the train had started slowing down.
Rajkumar being the elder and wiser quickly realized some station is arriving. In
the total dark late night, when even Batman was half-sleepy, The Sandila Station
arrived. Yes, Sandila, famous for its sweet culinary history. A town sensible
people buy sweets and remember the occasion with dignity. Rajkumar and I were neither
sensible nor people. We were 13 & 15 yrs old hungry and insensible boys who
had INR 50/- to splurge! We spotted aloo puri. How much? INR 5/- each. That’s
INR 10/-. Perfect. We still save enough for the famous Laddoos. Two plates,
please. The hawker started making the hot puris and warming the aloo. He was
going about his job patiently. While we were lying on the bottom berth, our
hearts and stomach were pounding in equal beat and hands waiting to pounce on
the leaf plate, stitched by matchsticks or broomsticks. He handed over the two
plates and asked for money. I handed over the crisp INR 50/- note. The hawker
had taken the note. We had taken the plates and had started hogging. The train
whistle blew. The train started moving. The hawker just had to not move! And he
didn’t. But the INR 50/- note was moving away and finally vanished. Rajkumar
and I froze. Holding our plates, we watched our financial future slip away. The
hunger vanished. Instantly. The puris lost all charm. Laddoos were anyways not
on our menu. We had just fried a fifty rupee note along with puris!
What
were we going to say in the morning? There was no explanation. None running
through our minds sounded remotely convincing. Boarding school cunningness
kicked in along with rules of friendship. Rajkumar and I were in this mess together.
Fifty bucks in 1992 was not 50 bucks of today. We had some answering to do. Well,
next morning was as busy as the previous evening for my father and the other
parents on the platform. Rajkumar and Monisha stayed with us for a couple of
days before moving on to Chittaranjan. Those days were light and fun. Somehow,
I don’t remember if my father asking about the money. I don't remember whether
the puris were any good. But I remember Rajkumar being by my side and always
reassuring, “don’t worry, we will manage it together”. No big motivation or a grand
speech. Just being by the side. A lifelong companionship. Definitely worth more
than fifty bucks.
Boarding-school
taught us that friendship is a tradition. And tradition had declared that every
event is a mass, social and community event. The entire class would be party to
your party. Including, the gatherings where you yourself may be the decoration!
And sometimes the cake! You are being cut, passed on to be distributed and
finally thrown into the bin for being too sweet! They are forged under shared circumstances
such as cold dormitories, homesickness, uncommon problems with common seniors, the
constant possibility of getting dhunned by a senior for no faulty of
your and then there is the weather of Jharipani! The union of the cloud & fog,
rain travelling down the oak leaves, moss filled walls, hills disappearing
completely without warning only to arrive back along with the sun in a new
green jacket with silver buttons. Boys and girls who grow up in the hills like
us develop a peculiar sense of belonging. We may not even like everyone. Some
people we would happily have pushed down a hill returning from Mussoorie on a
second Saturday trip to town! Decades later, though, when a familiar damp smell,
half-frozen-creamy porridge on the table, a nickname or phrase is mentioned and
you are a 13-yr old yet again, wanting to flee this life and rush back to the platform,
wait for friends and carry the familiar swag.
No comments:
Post a Comment