It was a gang of four or five youngsters. They hit him and kicked him, and tried to push him out of the train. He was terrified and desperately tried to hold on to something or the other. But he didn’t want to fight. Why would he? He was at his friendliest best, full of love for the world. Can’t these guys see it, the love in his eyes?
He tried explaining he meant no harm to anybody. Yes, he was sitting on the doorstep of a moving train, drinking his rum-cola mix, singing his songs to nobody. But he wouldn’t bother anybody. He’s happy. The world is beautiful. Live and let live.
But the youngsters apparently belonged to a different world. They weren’t interested in any dialogue. It was clear from the start when one of them tapped him and his happy lazy eyes met their steely gaze.
He was sitting there, taking the strong gust on his face, bellowing out his favourite songs that rushed past his ears inaudible, staring at the moon and the stars and blurry dark landscapes and tree lines, smelling the peculiar cold smell of a running train—perhaps a mix of steel and water and crap on the tracks, sipping his drink, loving everything and everyone…in a beautiful world, a world of his own.
Then he felt this firm tap on his back and turned back to see this gang of boys—teenagers perhaps, or, in their early twenties. What stood out was their aggressive, intense self-righteous gaze. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. So he signaled that they were inaudible, stood up, closed the door, and moved closer to the guy closest to him to hear him.
They all screamed together, barraging him with many different questions that they sounded just like the train – loud and unclear. It wasn’t hard to guess though: they wanted to know what was he doing there, what was in the bottle, where was he going…things that ideally shouldn’t concern them. They were asking for his ticket, too. They had their fingers pointed at the cola bottle in his hand. There was nobody else. Most people in the three-tier air-conditioned compartment had gone to sleep, and almost all the lights in there were out.
He smiled gently—he knew he was an offender in their book of morals—and started an earnest attempt to answer all their questions one by one. But, of course, nobody listened. The youngsters had already got their answer. He had hardly said it was a mix of booze in the bottle when one of the boys grabbed his throat and pushed him back. The closed door stopped him from falling out of the train. He was sort of dazed and tried to regain balance. Somebody slapped him. His glasses fell off. As he bent down to pick it up he got a kick on his butt. He tumbled and all of them pounced on him, kicking and stomping on him.
He tried explaining even as he curled up and hid his face and head under his arms. He didn’t want to create any trouble. He knew how to handle his drinks and never misbehaved with anyone just because he was drunk. Not even once in about three decades, perhaps more, since he started drinking. What has he then? Around the age of his assaulters. Probably younger.
Hello? Is anyone listening? This guy has been drinking for some 30 years, and travelling for more than that. He knows exactly where he is and what he wants, don’t worry about that. Leave him alone and he would sit there for some more time, enjoy this lovely night, finish his drink, tiptoe to his berth, eat his dinner, and catch a good night’s sleep.
That was his plan. If only somebody cared to listen, he could give a lecture on the benefits of booze – the best appetizer, the best anti-depressant, the best sleeping pill ever…. Why, that night, if not for the out-of-the-blue visitors, he would have gorged on the tasteless dinner they serve in the train and slept peacefully. And what better way to sit back and relax through a 56-hour journey from the north of the country to the south, enjoying the music of a running train and the relentless march of trees and farmlands and hills and rivers and buildings and platforms, forgetting adulthood tensions and cherishing childhood memories, and seeing the good things of life? He would’ve loved to explain. He longed to show those youngsters what he saw.
But they were too busy beating him up and shouting the choicest of expletives of their regional tongue. It was extremely painful for him. One of them had a heavy pair of boots and another a cane in his hand. Every blow felt like breaking his bones. But what hurt the most was their intense animosity towards him, without any apparent reason or provocation.
He thought about his assaulters and their lives. He tried to picturize their homes and their parents and teachers. He thought about racism. He thought about Jesus on the cross. All that to help the pain here and now.
But soon he realized mere thoughts wouldn’t save him that night. The boys kicked him aside and one of them opened the door. The air gushed in. The roar of the train rushed in. They pulled him up. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t open his eyes. Every part of his body ached and stung. He thought about death. They pushed him to the door. He clung on to one of the metal bars at the train’s entrance. They hit on his fingers. He held on to the window grille on the side. They took turns to kick him and beat him with the cane. He knew he would fall off any moment.
He felt immense pain in his chest. Why? He didn’t get any answer. He cried out to his tormentors: “I’m not evil, this booze is not evil; the evil is the hatred that your masters have fed you with.”
And he cried. He cried for the boys. He cried for the world. His own sobs echoed in his ears as a lullaby as he slowly blacked out.
When he opened his eyes he was still hanging on to the window grille and the youngsters were still beating him with the cane. But something had changed. He was no longer weak or helpless. Their strikes no longer hurt him. He felt only a vibration. It was like his body had turned into a strong energy field. Nothing touched him. Not even his clothes. Everything was happening at a distance. All he could feel was the vibration. It felt it right in front of his forehead, somewhere between his eyes, at the edge of his nose. He breathed it in and became a part of that energy, that vibration, a network…of eternal life?
He felt strong, very strong…full of life, full of energy. He stepped on the doorstep and grabbed the side bar. He pushed the youngsters back and got into the train. He shut the door behind him and stared at them. He felt nothing for them. He no longer owed any explanation to anybody. All that didn’t make any sense. He just sat there on the floor, breathing in the vibration. When they hit him he growled. When they hit him again he snarled at them. But nothing touched him.
He didn’t notice when they went away. Perhaps they got down at some station, or they might have just walked away, it didn’t matter. When he felt hungry he washed his face and hands—he didn’t feel any sting in the cuts or bruises—and went to his berth and climbed atop carefully. He turned the reading light on and started eating greedily, almost snatching the food from his hand. He didn’t feel any taste, but he loved it. It was energy, it was more vibration. He saw a noisy child of the day clinging on to his mother with a hand and a leg on her in the dim moonlight. She who spent the whole day scolding him and fingering her smartphone is now holding on to him. A man who never removed his suit and was constantly fixing up meetings or shouting at people on his phone is now snoring with his mouth open. Everyone looked rotten and wretched. He saw a compartment, a train, a world, full of miserable, lifeless creatures. They put him off. He could no longer relate with them, or make sense of their thoughts and talks. He had nothing to do with them. Not any more.
He finished the food. He still felt hungry and gulped down a bottle of water. He felt unbearably hot. Wasn’t the AC working? He wanted to tear off his clothes. He felt suffocated. He carefully rolled up the food packet without spilling anything. He crawled down from the berth and sneaked out of the compartment. He pushed the empty food packet into the already full waste bin. He opened the train’s door and threw his face into the strong wind. He felt good. He felt the vibrations again. He closed his eyes and let out small groans of happiness. He wanted to roar.
He roared.
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May 2016
