Tender Mercies

The train, huffing like a tired animal, slowly came to a halt. The cradling motion of the coach vanished and so did my sleep. Crouched on one elbow, I opened my dreamy eyes to a familiar sight. My father, all shaved and dressed, was sitting pretty on the front berth reading the morning paper and sipping his sugarless tea. This, after all, constituted his daily morning ritual and he followed it religiously –irrespective of situation or circumstance. It, therefore, never surprised me to see him ever so relaxed and at home even on trains. He was, after all, an official of the Indian Railways making trains his natural second home.I sat up and looked out of the glass window, expecting nothing new from the view that lay ahead. To me, every station looked the same, every platform identical and the “chai wallas” A-V perfected clones of each other. Though the train had stopped and the other passengers were on their way out, I knew it wasn’t time for us to get off. An unwritten tradition of the service (undoubtedly a residue of the colonial past) ensured that whenever a senior official (especially if he was new to the posting) returned from a trip, he was, in spite of protestations, received by a battery of subordinate officials. Fortunately or unfortunately, that day was no different. So, even before we could say “howdy,” we were whisked out of the coach with extreme ease and onto a platform that appeared noisier and more crowded than usual. Seeing a hoard of people gathered around the general compartment of a passenger train, we sensed something was amiss. Seeing concern writ all over my father’s face, one of the officials from our reception party took charge of the situation and ran towards the spot with alarming gusto. The rest of us, along with my father, followed suit, with me in tow.

The Indian public of the Doordarshan era, (this was 1983 and I was all of fourteen years then) bereft as it was of wholesome entertainment, was being drawn towards this concentration like a moth to a beaming light, enjoying every minute of the available “tamasha.” With a lot of shoving and pushing we somehow managed to manoeuvre past the crowd and into the train.....only to be shocked at the sight that lay ahead. There, on the corner of a cold wooden berth sat a frail little girl of about eleven with her younger brother and sister. Their faces were a fresco of wet tears and dirt, coloured with emotions of loss, dread and gnawing uncertainty. Being a child myself, I couldn’t decide what scared them more – the fact that they were vulnerable and alone or all the restless people that looked ready to devour them with their eyes. Fortunately, the local force arrived in time (by Bollywood standards) and quickly managed to disperse the burgeoning crowd. Turning to the children, a harassed looking officer asked in a rather stern voice, “How come you are alone? Where’s your father?”The eleven year old managed to reply in broken sentences, punctuated by suppressed sobs. “Pata nahin (don’t know)........He had gone to get us some water at a station...um...um....(she couldn’t recall the name). But he didn’t return.” “No, he would have, but the blasted train didn’t wait for him,” howled the brother interjecting angrily in between sobs.

Incapable of understanding desertion, only vaguely being able to sense it, the three almost immediately began to wail and whimper inconsolably, holding on to each other for dear life. The whole enquiry seemed utterly futile. The children hardly even knew their real names, what to talk of their father’s. On looking around, a badly written note from a bag helped to fill in the pieces. It appeared that the three motherless children had been abandoned by a father who could fend for them no more.Unsure of the real situation and incapable of crying anymore, the eleven year old composed herself, pulling her siblings closer and the bag which was now their only possession. Seeing my lips quiver at their predicament, my father pulled me aside. It was time to go. As I began walking away, feeling secure clutching on to my father’s hand, I looked back for one last time. The brother was gently nudging his elder sister. Just then I heard him say, “Didi, I’m really hungry.....Can I have that roti........the one that is lying in the bag.” Giving him a helpless look, his sister pulled him closer and replied, “Why don’t you understand. This one is for papa.”