Khaled Mansour, travelling from New York to some place in the US writes on Facebook:
“In a train where all adults are seriously busy and frowning at smart phones when I notice the only two non-serious people, both kids, watching cartoons or photos on their parents smart phones. At least they are laughing. But nobody is looking out of the train windows– only into the virtual ones!”
It’s not just in the Western world. We too are becoming like that. These days, people, particularly the young, remain wired to their phones and head phones and barely make conversation. It wasn’t like that. In earlier days friendships made in trains lasted long beyond the train journey. I particularly remember a Marwari couple from Kolkata who were traveling companions while I was on my way to Kanpur.
The couple showered me with bhujias, namkeens and what-have-you eatables. And they shouted me down when I ordered my lunch from the railway catering, forcing me to gorge on the parathas and achar they had bought along. Much of that bonhomie on trains is gone now, particularly in the AC coaches where everyone has an air of self-importance.
So I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this train journey on the non-stop Duronto Express from Delhi to Kolkata recently. As I took my window seat in the 3-tier compartment, I noticed a young man nattily dressed opposite me. On his side were two children with their mother, apparently from Haryana. The children smiled coyly at me by which time another young man came to my part of the coupe and took his seat.
The children couldn’t suppress their giggling. The young man who had just arrived had long hair rolled into a bun, like a woman’s. The kids were whispering to their mother, ‘Is it a man or a woman?’ In a mock chide I put my finger to the lips. They giggled even more. The English-speaking man-woman, from South India I presumed, took refuge on the upper berth and hid himself in the pages of a thick book by Kafka.
‘I can urge him to buy my book,’ I thought, ‘author-signed’.
Just then a young woman arrived and asked if she could hang her bag against the window.
‘It’ll block my view..!’ I protested. Offended, she flung her bag on top bunk giving me a dirty look. She was teary eyed I noticed. Just then the train began to move and her young escort ran out with a brief, incomplete hug. He ran along the train for a while, waving good bye to his girlfriend, I presumed. With seven individuals the train felt silent, except for the kids who fought among themselves. I hate traveling in a train without conversation. So I began with the young man opposite me, ‘Visiting Kolkata?’
‘Yes. My first visit … for a friend’s wedding… Can you tell me what places to see around Kolkata?’ he asked. I began listing the places one by one….Kali Ghat, Park Street, Chowringhee, College Street, Jora Sanko. In the meantime, I also learnt that he was a practicing lawyer with the Supreme Court (SC) of India.
How could such young fellow practice in the SC? ‘You have to pass certain exams,’ he assured me. As I listed more places the man-woman on the upper bunk leaned out and said, ‘Don’t forget to see the Howrah Bridge (since our train was going to Sealdah the man would not be entering the city through the Howrah Bridge)…And Rajarhat…It’s the new happening place,” he offered. So he was a Bengali! Living in the outskirts of Kolkata, he worked as a techie in cyber-city. ‘Bengal and Bengalis are changing,’ I thought.
In the meantime the young lady, who had been insouciant some time back, asked if I could lend her my mobile phone. “My phone is not working…I’ll insert my sim card,” she explained. She looked so desperate I had no option but to give her the phone.
Meanwhile the SC lawyer kept on jotting the names of places he should see on his smart phone. I asked him to visit Digha, Kolkata’s poor answer to Goa, to which he warmed up since he had never been to a sea. Finally it turned out he had just two days, including the wedding, to spare.
Then we came to the topic of food when I suggested Tangra for Chinese food, Park Street for Chinese and Mughlai food. The young woman who had just taken a break from her marathon phone call interrupted us. ‘I’m from Park street…Go to Shiraz if you want good biryani.’ Then she went back to her call.
The man-woman supplied more names of food and biryani joints around Park Street. When the woman handed me back her mobile I asked her, ‘You speak Bengali?’ No she said, but she was born and brought up in Kolkata. Then she cleared the mystery, ‘I’m a Muslim.’ She also handed me her visiting card.
‘Naukri.com!’ I exclaimed,’ You can give me a job!’ The others who had overheard me also began asking her for her calling card that had apparently exhausted. That didn’t stop them from scribbling her name, number and email. Suddenly she was in much demand. And she was perfectly happy with the attention she was attracting. From jobs we moved to her first visit to Delhi.
‘Most of the day I was holed up in my room too terrified to get out alone,’ she explained. The boy who had escorted her and was waving to her was a distant cousin and her fiancé, she revealed. Then she went on to explain how she felt much safer in Kolkata, which lately, according to her, was acquiring a bad reputation.
Then somehow the conversation veered back to jobs. I got this feeling that all my fellow travelers were looking for jobs. Could this woman really give me a job? ‘Send me your CV’, she said confidently. The others were not so open in asking her for a job, but it was apparent they all hated their jobs. Why, even the girl from Naukri appeared unhappy.
Every now and then she had work-related calls from office. In a way her phone became her workstation. But as the train rolled into Bengal I realized she was making discreet enquiries with the IT geek, the man-woman, about possibilities in IT. The man-woman readily offered her advice that I pretended not to hear. She was interested in SAP. The man-woman confessed he did not know much about SAP. But his cousin knew. ‘I can give you his number,’ he said. She jotted down the number. At that point I had to interrupt the Naukri girl.
‘Hello…! Are you sure you are working for Naukri.com, the one giving jobs! I have a feeling you are searching for a job yourself…!’ There was a loud burst of laughter from everyone including the young woman. The SC lawyer put it philosophically, ‘Life is all about that dream job that you never will get.’
I added my bit, ‘It’s better to be unhappy in a job than to not have one at all!’
The naukri girl promised, ‘Uncle don’t forget to send me your CV.’ I would have done that but my nephew, on searching my pockets (he always does that) discovered her card and said, ‘Naukri.com! I’m going to keep this!’ And to think of it he was just a year into what his friends thought was a ‘dream job’!
Several weeks later, I was remembering Nazia Hussain, that lively girl from Park Street. It was Eid. ‘My sister makes wonderful biryani,’ she had said. ‘So you’re inviting us?’ I had retorted. And all of us had had a good laugh.
Ashim Choudhury is author of ‘The Sergeant’s Son’. Read more about him on his blog www.ashimch13.blogspot.in)
Ashim Choudhury
Thank You For Your Vote!
Sorry You have Already Voted!
