The Kalra Express

Chai! Chai! Chai!

Oh, for a hot cup of tea...

Samir had just managed to scramble his way to Kalra Station, after being betrayed by his alarm clock. Again.

‘One cup, please’, he said, as he reached for his wallet.

He had missed breakfast, which Mrs. Yousuf had laid out for him.

Samir exchanged wary glances with the tea vendor, and turned towards the train platform.

The Kalra Express was just about ready, with the maintenance officers going through the final motions. There was a congregation of European tourists at one end of the platform.

With a bottle of mineral water on one hand, and a crumpled map in the other, their thirst for direction was even more evident!

There were teary families who were seeing off their relatives and mothers with wailing babies.

There were passengers haggling with coolies, while an old woman on a wheel-chair was being escorted by her grandson.

What a cauldron of human emotion; a sea of humanity, Samir thought.

He had barely sipped through half the cup, when the engine blared a final time.

Samir ambled his way to his coach, a large backpack strapped around him, and seated himself on berth 43.

Seats 39-42 were empty in the six-berth coach, except for seat 38, which a European man occupied. He seemed very studious, bespectacled with a scrawny beard and watched Samir, as he pushed the backpack underneath his window seat.

‘I saw you running into the station’, the European began, in a heavy accent.’Worried you’d miss the train?’, he queried.

‘Yes’, Samir said, rather sheepishly’. ‘First time in India?’

‘Well, I travel every year’

‘You seem to enjoy traveling to India, then?’

‘Oh, completely; there’s so much mystery around, so much to see, hear, and experience. With thousands of years of civilization behind you, India is truly rich in heritage. The world has a lot to learn from your culture and tradition’.

Samir, suddenly felt a sense of  pride, and agreed with the European.

‘Are you a scholar?’, asked Samir.

‘No’, smiled the European,’ am a writer; based in Norway’.

‘What do you write?’.

‘Travelogues, mostly; nothing published though. I write for myself and prefer the anonymity.’

I get inspired by the very experience of walking through the streets here in India. There’re so many people around you, so much happening, that no one knows you. Then again, the people are so friendly and hospitable, that you would think they already knew you. It’s a paradox.’

Samir smiled and said, ‘Samir Yousuf; nice to meet you’

‘Wehtam Najnar; a pleasure’.

It was 8.15AM and The Kalra Express began making its way out of the station on time, and Samir heaved a sigh of relief.

He would join his good friend, Babu, the next morning at Kozhikode. He was excited to spend his holiday in Kerala, a place he’d never been to.

Just at that moment, a Punjabi family appeared, huffing their way through the aisle, and proceeded to settle down in the coach.

The Malhotras took, what looked like ages, to settle down.

And when they did, all the space disappeared, and it felt like the smallest coach ever.

They had tons of luggage, which gave you the idea they were on some inter-galactic expedition.

Mrs. Malhotra was clearly irritated with Mr. Malhotra, that he couldn’t get them First Class A/C tickets. Mr. Malhotra kept profusely apologising, and looking at Samir and Wehtam, proclaimed, ‘It’s the monsoon season; everyone wants to visit Kerala, I couldn’t get reservations in time’. With concerned faces responding to Mr. Malhotra’s excuse, he felt relieved. Mrs. Malhotra retorted, ’If only your brain was as large as your back-side, we wouldn’t be in this stinking mess’. The Malhotras clearly wore their hearts on their sleeves.

Little Mandeep was about five years old, and growing very fast!

His little yellow turban had polka dots on them, which had a weird illusory effect.

He drooled saliva, and went about creating bedlam amongst the little girls in the coach.

He kept returning with either a toy or a hair-clip with each visit he made to the other coaches.

Mr. Malhotra was proud of his little boy.

‘See, he’s just like me. I used to be very resourceful as a kid. My nickname was “Retriever”.

‘Isn’t ‘Retriever’ a breed of dog?’, asked Wehtam innocently.

Mr. Malhotra realised he’d spoken too much.

Samir chuckled and wondered if there was a connection with Mr. Malhotra’s nickname and his salivating son!

Lunchtime!

Kalappad station was a 15 min stop, and Mr. Malhotra and Samir got off the train for some drinking water. The humidity was unbearable.

 

As they got back to their seats, they were greeted by the sight of a lightly-built man in his early thirties. He had a thick beard and had little luggage.

He and Mandeep got along well, as Mrs. Malhotra complained of the heat, and fanned herself.

The new passenger introduced himself as Shahid from Lahore, Pakistan; he was travelling to Kottayam to see the annual boat race.

Wehtam got chatty with Shahid, as Mrs. Malhotra unpacked a huge box, which apparently contained the Malhotras’ lunch. Her face was as round as the aloo parathas she served out. Then again, she had a big heart, and offered us all some parathas and home-made sabzi.

After lunch, Samir was looking forward to a nap, but the little menace with the turban had other ideas. It was quite an ordeal being exposed to the tortuous high frequency screams from Mandeep, which Mr. Malhotra almost seemed to encourage.

Wehtam was listening to his transistor when, a news flash was announced.

‘One hundred and twenty people are reported killed and many more injured when a bomb blast occurred at noon near the Gateway of India’. The news reader went on, ’The police have arrested three men, who have claimed responsibility for the blast. The three men are members of a prominent Pakistani terrorist group …’

That instant Mr. Malhotra pulled Mandeep away from Shahid, and screamed, ’Traitor! Terrorist! Go back to your country! ’.

‘But I have nothing to do with this.’, answered Shahid, who was taken aback.

Wehtam tried to calm Mr. Malhotra but Mrs. Malhotra joined in too, cursing Shahid.

‘Don’t you Pakistanis have any respect for human life?’, she cried out to Shahid.

‘Beta! ’, she ordered Mandeep, don’t ever go and sit near that murderer! ’.

Shahid was shaken, and remained still for many minutes, his long face looking down.

A sour welcome indeed Shahid received, disappointment and shock welling in him.

Wehtam took Shahid for a walk down the aisle, as the Malhotras continued their tirade.

Samir sat there, and in his fear, he contemplated the fragility of the lives they lived.

An hour passed, and Wehtam returned with Shahid, to find the Malhotras peacefully asleep.

Mandeep looked angelic - for a change - as he slept.

The skyline had an orange-yellow hue just before sunset. The Malhotras were awake, and gave Shahid frowning glances every now and then.

Shahid opened a small tin box of laddus, and apologetically offered the Malhotras.

Mr. Malhotra gave in and reached out for a piece, when Mrs. Malhotra slapped his stretched hand.

‘Please have one laddu. This is from my ancestral home in Kasoi, Rawalpindi.’

‘Kasoi?’, Wehtam asked. ’Isn’t that where large joint families were separated during the Partition; and those who crossed the border, accepted Sikhism?’

‘Why, yes’, Shahid said, surprised at Wehtam’s accurate account.

‘My great-great-grand father and his brother were separated in 1947;his brother fled across the border, never to be seen again. I know his descendants live in India, and have always dreamed of the day I meet them.’

‘Wait a minute, my ancestors came from Kasoi too’, said Mr. Malhotra, as he finally reached out for a laddu.’ My great-great-grandfather’s original name was Ahmed Zulfikar Khan.’

Shahid was speechless for a brief moment.

‘Ahmed Zulfikar Khan used to be the head of Kasoi Panchayat, I’d heard’,Mr. Malhotra went on.

Shahid eyes opened wider, rummaged through his travel bag, and produced a family will which was signed between 2 brothers, Asif Zulfikar Khan and Ahmed Zulfikar Khan.

Over the next 20 minutes, Shahid and Mr. Malhotra nervously answered each other’s questions, which were interlaced with their brief gasps of excitement.

Wehtam furtively searched for his pen; a moment of inspiration had arrived, and he needed to fulfill a basic desire to write something.

Samir spoke, while an awe-struck Shahid and Mr. Malhotra looked at each other.

‘Does this mean you’re third-cousins?’

‘Bhaiya! ’ Shahid cried out and hugged Mr. Malhotra, who by now had tears streaming down his large pink cheeks.

A teary-eyed, Mrs. Malhotra came across to bless Shahid, as Mandeep awoke.

That night nobody slept. It was as though even Samir and Wehtam had a familial bond with the Malhotras and Shahid.

Mr. Malhotra and Shahid spent the entire night sharing childhood stories, family folklore, and kept feeding each other aloo parathas and laddus. Wehtam continued writing into the night, as Mrs. Malhotra sang religious hymns and began knitting a sweater for Shahid. Mandeep stuck his tongue out the window, and Samir tried to grab some shuteye.

The sun was up in a couple of hours, and you could almost smell the monsoon rain, as Calicut approached.

Samir woke to see Shahid and Mr. Malhotra asleep on the floor in a brotherly embrace.

Just then, outside the window Samir read a large yellow board board approach :’C-A-L-I-C-U-T’.

The train came to a halt, and Samir had reached his destination.

Everyone had been through a personal awakening during the journey.

Mandeep’s awakening, however, was that he’d lost his voice with all that hollering.

As Samir hugged his co-travellers goodbye, Wehtam promised he’d send Samir what he was writing.

A month later Samir received a package from Norway; and surely enough, it was from Wehtam.

He allowed his anecdote to be published in a prominent Norwegian weekly.

Oddly, Wehtam Najnar, decided to spell his name in reverse order, which did sound a rather Indian name. Then again, not that odd, as Samir remembered   Wehtam’s preference for anonymity.

Samir decided to read this on the morning train to work.

As he waited in the station, Samir opened the weekly and read on…

 

Chai! Chai! Chai!

Oh for a hot cup of tea...

Samir already had two cups of tea before leaving home, and let the tea-vendor pass by, this time.