PARIJAT-34

 

His bowed frame collapsed further on that concrete bench of the railway platform as he kept his head between his knees and hands coming around those knees in the replica of a closed embrace of a departing lover made him to swing involuntarily back and forth with fulcrum on the upper part of his feet. The piercing and acidic whips of that cold winter night were cutting into his flesh with ferocity of a ravaging lunatic. He tried to listen to the voice of that piecing cold as he breathed his breath recoiling back from his groin covered by that soiled half pant. The breathe is dry, putrid and pungent but emitted certain amount of heat to his face, now buried further between his clasped knees. His exposed legs below the knees started rattling in the cold. The silence of the cold night made that inaudible rattling to a loud moan of the deprived. He could not tolerate that moaning. It echoes a tender undertone of deep melancholy and solitary sorrow of a solitary life.

He listened to that moaning; moaning of rattling bone synchronized with dry, aqueous and rumbling breathing of winter night, with his fainting heart beats. The flow of that red liquid in those numerous pipelines with small bore and big bore netted throughout his body, for those carry so called life ,too joined in that moaning by halted flow. He moved his fingers on his face still buried between his knees. One by one, part by part, he sensed through his fingers whiling drawing shadowy figures of those in the sunny and bright landscape of the mind, where everything is clear, vivid and panoramic- the papery wrinkles of the face, the cracked and soared lips with dry blood, those pus filled pimples on the nose, the rough mustache, the dropping ears with semi fluid wax sticking to the wall of that meandering narrow tunnel, all combined together forming the silhouette of shabbiness. It is smoky and foggy with dust of water floating around aimlessly but with purpose to come back to that flowing form ,touches and kisses those little heat hidden in those long slender electric tubes, hanging horizontally from tapered body poles, emitting shadowy light with agitation, hesitation and imperfection. Those little heat infuses enough life to those tiny water dusts to reassemble together and embrace together to roll into one from many, showing the strength of unity and transformation of togetherness and in the end transform them to a drop of water clinging in vain to slippery electric pole, only to roll down after a while under the pull of gravity like those tiny tear drops of uncontrolled sobbing eyes, pulled down with pang and whip of melancholy.

 And he too now has gathered enough heat and life back from that closed clasp of knees. Now it is time for move. The first train after mid-night from his town will arrive soon and with it will bring many hopes for him. He will greet the passengers in his mother tongue and they would certainly smile. His hope is growing now like the uncontrolled growth of those unwanted weeds of polluted and stagnant water of sinking pond. The levitating hope bloomed further. He lifted his head out of that clasped knees and burped out air from his mouth to drive out the winter temporarily. The air from mouth was smoky too and that temporarily hided his view from the reality at front. He narrowed his eyes and tried to imagine. People in colorful warm clothes getting down from the train with big old model galvanized tin boxes full of costly and too essentials, those medium sized cloth bags, mouth stitched haphazardly and bulging out like pregnant lady with those not-too- essentials and those plastic carry bags full of cheap-but-immediately-required-essentials. They would carry themselves those plastic bags and at best that cloth bag. But that big galvanized box? It is surely for him to carry. How many passengers he shall attend to?

 He looked to his batch number tied to his left upper arm, certifying him as a licensed railway porter. The sparkling yellow metallic plate is perfect match to his dark red shirt and khaki half pant. For a moment the impeding anticipation and expectation on his mind appeared to have dwarfed the menace of that wicked cold night with that iced whip of air. He pulled and stretched his shirt from the bottom to push away those folds big and small on the shirt. He robbed his palms vigorously on his face with a hope of eradicating temporarily those papered wrinkles. He dusted that cement bench for those incoming passengers to sit and wait while he shall  serve them one by one, for he is the only porter waiting in that isolated platform for that train which arrives after mid-night when the world outside is comfortably slept. That is the train of hope for him, for senior porters do not allow him to operate in the day when all important trains arrive. He can not the fight against that melee. He can not fight against that jungle’s rule where the power is always the winner.

His mind rushed as the announcing system barked in a drowsy voice the arrival of trains in five minutes. Five minutes of hope. Nay, it is 300 seconds of hope. Hope big and firm. A comforting hope, a levitating hope, a hope as beautiful as super nova and consisting of many splendid novas, exploding and dazzling one after other. Night drew darker and he mused in anxiety and started wringing his hands.

The train is arriving. It is arriving with cacophony of unsynchronized sounds from engine and dry friction between rails and wheels with hissing, rustling, rattling and whooshed of wind from opposite direction. Ultimately it stopped with a shriek. First hands came out from the compartments, then heads from the necks. The heads withdrew first to give way to legs, right for somebody, left for somebody but both for children. Many on platforms now and many still pushing their luggage. But where are those pregnant cloth bags? Where are those galvanized tin boxes full of essentials? Many are boxes with wheels. Boxes with four wheels rolled away like a dog in a chain following the master. Boxes with two wheels walked past him like those chained and obedient dogs of the circus following the masters while walking on behind legs and raising the front legs. In the end somebody with plastic bag in a hand pushed out a big tin box. He rushed toward that passenger in anticipation. “Coolie, Sir.” He waited for permission from the passenger to carry that box. The passenger smiled and pulled out a folded carrier with wheels from that plastic bag. He helped the passenger to position that box on the wheeled carrier. The passenger pushed a soiled five rupee note in his hand as he moved forward.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He started to move involuntarily as if he is being pulled away by a pair of unseen hand. He walked away from the platform. He felt his senses has been honed and heightened. Everything around him had been carved to a neat illustration. The smoky and iced night gave way to bright and warm dawn as he moved towards mosque. Early morning street hawkers have started displaying their items on sale. Items of palm leaves and palm’s fiber. Suddenly his mind rushed backward as he moved forward to the mosque. His mind flew to his village full of palm trees standing tall and proud. He found him climbing up that tall palm tree with a safety rope encircling him and trunk of the tree. He jumps and moves up in the tree. Palms are visible. Leaves are visible. Sweet smell of round and fleshy palms. One jump. One more jump, the final jump. One more spirited jump. Can he make? Yes, he can.

He could listen to the mass prayer coming out of mosque. It is rhythmic like his heart beat. It is prayer of life. It is leitmotiv of life.