On the night train to nowhere

Abhaya stared hard at the underside of the bunk, where the abrasive snoring of her grandmother filled the carriage. It irritated her, though she felt remorse immediately she realised this. Her Grandparents, and their parents before them, were everything that she was, they had built her world from nothing.

That was the trouble. Something of her unseen self prickled just below the surface, trying to communicate with her voice, her limbs. But she couldn’t allow it to get out; they wouldn’t understand.

How could a good, honest family understand that she wanted to leave? There was a future for her, in the business, as there had been for her father and her brothers, as there would be for her children. Hadn’t it, hadn’t they, provided her with everything she’d ever wanted? she tried to squash the little voice inside her, but she heard it all the same – No, not everything - and she’d throw it all away over some notion of importance and brain? A mere dream that she could barely hope to attain? Even of the men, it was rare to find an educated Narayanan.

A tall, lank-haired young man thrust open the carriage door and shuffled through, canister and plastic cups clattering against his side as he intoned his gentle mantra

“Chai, chai, kopi, chai, kopi madame? Chai?”

Abhaya’s stomach snarled. She was hungry, but the roti were packed in Grandmother Kelasai’s case. It would be impertinent to wake her. She reached inside the folds of her salwaar, for a few paise to exchange for a goblet of the harsh, sweet chai, always bitter with overbrewing, beneath the sugar, by the time it reached the cheaper carriages.

The chai-boy shuffled on, and Abhaya settled back onto her bunk, sipping at the scalding liquid. Night was approaching, and with it, came a harsh wind. Where she’d been glad of the gaping windows in the sticky heat of afternoon, she cursed them now.

The train pulled into a station with a scream of brakes, drowning out Grandmother Kelasai’s snarls and blocking, for a moment the hubbub of the platform. Then the doors opened and the fight onto the train began. The sound of four hundred feet deafened. Men barked instructions at each other and their families; instructions to push on, to move aside, or not to let go of the baby’s hand. Alongside the people came the spiced scent of hot, oily pakora and peanuts, the street hawkers’ cries crisp and inviting ‘hot, hot pakora, two rupee. Get it hot!’ The rickshaws honked a dozen different tunes, firing up their engines every now and then as they attracted customers heading into town.

Abhaya peered through the unclosable window at theplatform. Sharp frost bit at her brow. Outside, white breath-trails lightened the black night air. Food vendors and travellers alike huddled together against the cold, or his themselves beneath heavy woollen cloaks and rugs. An outstretched figure shifted beneath a pile of empty rice-sacks. Abhaya retreated, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders.

Her brothers would be out there, in another town. Every night battling the cold in the hopes of selling the best pakora in town for pittance. Most nights were good, a healthy profit and a hot-air vent for comfort. But some nights, well, you couldn’t have everything.

In the bunk opposite, a family had gathered. Mother and baby dozed, but in the grey light, three youngsters craned over a dog-eared book, tracing the eldest’s finger as it moved across the page.

Abhaya closed her eyes, as much to block out the jealousy as due to exhaustion.

And the train rattled on towards her future.