The Fountainhead in 4 days -- IV
We moved through the land like an errant arrow. Other trains side-stepped to let us pass, station masters waved their green flags - we were the tortoise in this race, putting on the final spurt of speed. And in the book, characters collided, rose and fell like the visions that flew past my window. I had to read, compulsively, to lull my brain into a world different from my present, into believing that nothing could go wrong anymore. I had filled my bottle up and bought a bunch of bananas for dinner at the last brief stop, leaving about Rs.20 for lunch and Rs.2 to call home for my brother to come and get me from the station. And so, with a quarter of my book left, we pulled into Titlagarh. It was about 3 pm, and not even the Parle-G biscuits could keep me from being ravenous.
As the train filled up on water, we filed out into the town outside the station, looking for any place that served anything that could pass as food. Signs like "Sambhu Resturant", "Aanand Hotel" and "Hanuman Palace", written in garish reds, yellows and whites across tin sheets welcomed us into small tumble-down shacks, with menus scrawled in white chalk on blackboard. The proprieters rushed out from behind their little cashier desks to usher us into their establishments. The white guy emerged looking rather lost, his companions having deserted him in their quest for satiation. I gestured to him to join me as I walked towards one of these humble havens, when one of the trains in the station let out a long wail of a whistle. I knew it wasn't our train - the source had been farther away, and it was too soon for ours to leave - but the white man turned on the spot and bolted, with long, loping strides, back into the station. He was back out in a couple of minutes, looking rather pale and sheepish.
We entered the "Sambhu Resturant", and I assisted my new found companion in ordering. We ate fast, in silence, and proceeded back to the train. I was acutely aware of the single Rs.2 coin that rolled in my pocket, and my empty wallet. We exchanged e-mail ids, and that was the first time I had heard of excite.com. His name was John Watson (I swear), and he was a journalism student in London. Back at the train, as he returned to his seat, I lingered at the door, looking back at the platform. We were 12 hours and many miles away from Khurda Road, and I reflected a moment on what it meant, and how much worse it could have been. But now I was on my way home. Whoever said the Indian Railways was bad?
"Jara rasta dijiye", someone said. A lady, almost 5 feet in height, bespectacled, wizened trying to enter the train. I hastened aside and helped her up. Once inside she turned to me and said, hopefully, "Teluga babu?" I couldn't help but smile. She told me she was traveling with her two boys, ages 16 and 10. They were going to Jamshedpur, too. She asked me how I was going to get home. I showed her my 2-rupee coin. "Ayyo pillada," she said, and pressed Rs.15 in my hand. Somehow, I thought, she looked a lot like my mother.
There isn't much more to the story, except that I read all through the night, and finished the book. We pulled into Jamshedpur at about 7am on the 31st of October. I got off, along with a few other people. Mr.Oriya stayed on the train, as did the white man. I called my brother, and as I waited for him, I said good-bye to the good lady and her kids. Auto-rickshaw drivers swarmed me like the press does a celebrity, but I turned them away, knowing that my brother would soon turn up on his noisy, trusty Bajaj Chetak. My legs still felt shaky from the journey, and my skin was covered in grime. But the sun was rising, and the cool morning air felt fresh and full. I would learn later that thousands of people and cattle died in that cyclone, that I had arrived on the same day as the Falaknuma that had left 2 days after us, that our train was even mentioned on the news, that my family had been sick with fear.
Well, that was how I read the Fountainhead.
As the train filled up on water, we filed out into the town outside the station, looking for any place that served anything that could pass as food. Signs like "Sambhu Resturant", "Aanand Hotel" and "Hanuman Palace", written in garish reds, yellows and whites across tin sheets welcomed us into small tumble-down shacks, with menus scrawled in white chalk on blackboard. The proprieters rushed out from behind their little cashier desks to usher us into their establishments. The white guy emerged looking rather lost, his companions having deserted him in their quest for satiation. I gestured to him to join me as I walked towards one of these humble havens, when one of the trains in the station let out a long wail of a whistle. I knew it wasn't our train - the source had been farther away, and it was too soon for ours to leave - but the white man turned on the spot and bolted, with long, loping strides, back into the station. He was back out in a couple of minutes, looking rather pale and sheepish.
We entered the "Sambhu Resturant", and I assisted my new found companion in ordering. We ate fast, in silence, and proceeded back to the train. I was acutely aware of the single Rs.2 coin that rolled in my pocket, and my empty wallet. We exchanged e-mail ids, and that was the first time I had heard of excite.com. His name was John Watson (I swear), and he was a journalism student in London. Back at the train, as he returned to his seat, I lingered at the door, looking back at the platform. We were 12 hours and many miles away from Khurda Road, and I reflected a moment on what it meant, and how much worse it could have been. But now I was on my way home. Whoever said the Indian Railways was bad?
"Jara rasta dijiye", someone said. A lady, almost 5 feet in height, bespectacled, wizened trying to enter the train. I hastened aside and helped her up. Once inside she turned to me and said, hopefully, "Teluga babu?" I couldn't help but smile. She told me she was traveling with her two boys, ages 16 and 10. They were going to Jamshedpur, too. She asked me how I was going to get home. I showed her my 2-rupee coin. "Ayyo pillada," she said, and pressed Rs.15 in my hand. Somehow, I thought, she looked a lot like my mother.
There isn't much more to the story, except that I read all through the night, and finished the book. We pulled into Jamshedpur at about 7am on the 31st of October. I got off, along with a few other people. Mr.Oriya stayed on the train, as did the white man. I called my brother, and as I waited for him, I said good-bye to the good lady and her kids. Auto-rickshaw drivers swarmed me like the press does a celebrity, but I turned them away, knowing that my brother would soon turn up on his noisy, trusty Bajaj Chetak. My legs still felt shaky from the journey, and my skin was covered in grime. But the sun was rising, and the cool morning air felt fresh and full. I would learn later that thousands of people and cattle died in that cyclone, that I had arrived on the same day as the Falaknuma that had left 2 days after us, that our train was even mentioned on the news, that my family had been sick with fear.
Well, that was how I read the Fountainhead.
posted by Sketchy Self at 7:44 AM
Your thoughts: 5
i cannot read it twice...
i will cry again...
which, the fountainhead or my blog?? ;)
its all abt alimentary, dear watson!
ayyyaa!!! updates plzzz,
Clear and lucid writing. You should try your hand at writing more travelogues.
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