The blind man's tea

The burly man stepped on my toe and squashed me with his body weight. The stink of his sweat-drenched shirt burned the insides of my nostrils. I wanted to push him off but knew it would be inappropriate. Besides, one of my hands was trapped behind the back of a man wearing a bright orange t-shirt with black dots.

I looked out at the treetops and electric poles, flying past at about 60 km/hour. Though I was standing just two hands away from the door, 8 feet high and 6 feet wide, not even a hint of breeze reached me. Standing at an average height of 5 feet 7 inches and with scores of jam-packed passengers in a Sealdah-Barasat local, one may not hope for anything but a speedy end of the hazardous journey.

I shared the overhead hand railing with other wet, hairy hands; all the while defending the meager inches in which I had miraculously fitted my body. At length, the last station neared, and with it, the train slowed down as if to build up some cheap suspense, before the climax. It crawled on the tracks half-heartedly and after another half hour of agony, squeezed into four minutes of the watch, the train halted.

I floated out with the human wave without any effort. On landing at the platform, I sidestepped to catch my breath. Relishing on the moment, my eyes fell on a man, dressed in a soiled shirt and rolled up black trousers. He wore black glasses, had a stick in his hand and a shoulder bag pressed in his armpit. I approached him, concerned that he might be pushed around by the crowd.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked.

"Tea shop," he said, still looking ahead.

I took his hand and guided him, avoiding crashing with people, dogs, beggars, and the likes. We passed a couple of stalls but none selling tea. I looked sideways at his expressionless face, hidden by the big glasses. He was not even 5 feet 7 inches.

A dingy stall with biscuits and cakes in dirty plastic jars and a saucepan on a kerosene stove materialized before my eyes.

"Wait here. Let me check if they sell tea," I said.

"They do," he said.

" Oh! You had been counting-"

He had already let my hand go and was standing at the counter of the stall.

I left dashed towards the exit as a faintly audible, "ki go didi, ki khobor?" died down among the murmuring crowd.

Taking the foot-over-bridge, I climbed the stairs, not counting my steps though.