The choo choo trains make a hell lot of a noise. My mp3 player can never outsmart the volume of the rumble on iron rails. Traveling like a gypsy with a pricey backpack makes me look like a yahoo with no real intention to make a long term impression..even on the minds of the rustic co-passengers.
Frustrated with the incapability of ma music player, I started looking around the smelly,noisy compartment. The usually “reserved” traveler couldn't find a reserved compartment this time. And, the same goes with the co-passengers. Their mouth had a “no reservation” board hanging right there to make me feel like a dustbin of their mutilated emotions; and not so friendly house hold chores. Dnno why, they always pick me as the “ideal listener”..maybe its ma bloody face again.
“Yes auntie..thats bad...I should have known u, since we live in d same 'para'!!”, ........“Yes uncle..your son should have got that job..the bloody scoundrels made a mistake..”, ....”Aha !!! ur son's in IIT ??!! WOWW!!..that was ma dream, u know..” Never can u say, “I never applied for the IIT”, thus risking an outburst of “why??”; emoted neatly
with a skeptic,poker face.In a while, I got rid of them. Concentrated on the hawkers instead. And trust me, they “hawk” too well for an non IIM-wallah !!! I almost jumped on ma seat, when that over pitched
voice shouted like a gramaphone on the wrong track; the very words that will scare girls like u. He was yelling out..”sore jaan..sore
jaan..chyanka diye debo kintu..” (translates to “get away from ma way..else..I'll burn u all” ). Then he said..”ami chyankao debo, takao nebo” (translates to “i'll burn u all, n get paid for that too” ). He was selling HOT SAMOSAS !!
The other guy was screaming his lungs out, in a language which seemed in close relation to Hebrew !! I asked, what the f*ck r u screaming in ma ears...i cant comprehend a single word..n neither can anybody in d compartment. He said, now in lucid Bangla..” If u aint
like that blind beggar with the harmonium, u can pretty well see that I'm selling safety pins..but then, u wouldn't need them and notice me; without that improvised language..I'm a success.”
A bit shaken by the last two encounters, I concentrated on the gray “scenery” outside. ( Yeah rt !!..I somehow managed the coveted window seat ). The first thing I noticed; was the painted sign board of a grocery shop beside Sodpur station platform. ( Ya Garry...it aint ur
Noida. We do our grocery shopping even on a railway platform. We r “practical bengalis” !! ) The sign read “BABA KHYAPA ALOO AND CONG.” !!! Now thats what I call “creating an impression” even with ur rotten potatoes !!!
I couldn't help overhear a heated conversation between two middle aged, potbellied,
dark skinned, flat nosed, snuff addict “gentlemen”..clad in creamish, dirty half shirts (a patented novelty of the stereotype bengal government office”babu” ??!! )...with all seven fingers donning seven gems. They were talking about communism in Bengal. Another daily diet for their scrupled intellect. For Garry...Communism in Bengal gives u the unbridled right to forget Marx and embrace Bush and then burn Bush just to be called the venerated Marxists.They got bored in a while; or maybe one of them had no more arrows (read 'slangs') left in his
quiver. I was fiddling with ma phone, and then one of the guys asked me..whos d guy on ma phone wallpaper. I said..he's Karl Marx. He said..”I knew it..was just testing u..u know..younger generations.. he he”. Goodbye Che Guevara...u couldnt be the most popular one, but certainly u had the looks of Marx..and, thats pretty pathetic.
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