The Red Train

Rahul got stuck at the railway signal - again. Of course, this was inevitable. After all, Atul chacha was never late. Chacha halted his auto rickshaw in front of Rahul's house at 9 a.m. He did not honk; he wasn't one of those people. Rahul, too, was bound by his own chains of punctuality. He couldn't make anybody wait. They reached the railway signal at 9:20 a.m. As he watched Rose pass by like she always did, Rahul wondered if she recognized him. It'd been almost a year since he'd been following this routine, and the red train never failed to say hello.

The 12X14 room, or Rahul's house, was perfectly neat. He had to keep it that way. He just had to. As he lay on his bed that night, he felt restless. Something wasn't right. He got up several times to ensure that the doors and windows were locked, and his bag packed for the next day. His clothes were ironed too. What was bothering him then?

The next morning was no different. Rahul looked out of the auto rickshaw at 9:20. He knew that she would greet him customarily. But Rose was nowhere in sight. "How can this be?" he asked Atul chacha. Chacha turned back and smiled, "Maybe you are ready." "Ready? Ready for what?!" Rahul asked him to stop the vehicle, and began looking for her at a terribly frantic pace. He inquired with every single soul in sight, but nobody would speak about her. What if she'd already left? He raced along the railway line to catch up with her. He raced till he ran out of breath, till he tripped over. And his eyes opened to the white ceiling of his 12X14. "Phew, a dream!" he thought to himself. He dove into a blissful slumber.

Atul chacha arrived on time, and Rahul was ready. As chacha braked his three-wheeled carriage just ahead of the railway track, Rahul peeped, and then, somehow, he couldn't sit there any longer. He sprinted towards the track and started running along it, just like he did in his dream. He saw her approaching him, and this time, he wouldn't let her go. He ran towards her. He ran and he ran. He did not stop; at least not till he was breathing.



I had taken an alternative route to office that day, and I ended up being stranded for over an hour, somewhere close to a rail line. I saw a man squatting on the side of the road with his hands holding his head, looking extremely grieved and lost. He was wearing the uniform of an auto rickshaw driver. I walked up to him and asked him what the matter was. "I'm so forgetful," he said. "If only I could remember his name." He was talking to himself. "His wife died here, exactly a year ago. Just like he did. Can you imagine?" I didn't know what to tell him, but he was completely unaware of my presence. "I took him for his daily visits to the doctor. He could never get over her death. His wife. What was her name? I think it was the name of a flower. Or was it? I'm so forgetful. If only I could remember her name."