The Light At The End of a Tunnel

As the darkness envelops all around me,

a darkness so blinding,

I close my eyes.

A silence so loud,

I find my hands wrapped around my ears.

A pace so frightening

I shut off my senses.

And wait for a new dawn,

A fresh lease of life.

I tell myself,

this is a phase of life.

This is a phase of life,

like any other.

And this too will pass,

like any other.

For as the shamans say,

bright light cometh

at the end of any tunnel.

Slowly I free my ears

from the wrath of my hands.

I can hear chatter.

Yes, chatter it is.

I force my eyelids open,

I see rays of light in a sea of darkness.

I am not alone, in this dark dark world.

There are little kids,

the stage of life where darkness has no meaning,

where the shades of life are brighter than the brightest.

There are old men,

the stage of life where one looks back and sighs

and claims there is no more brightness in life anymore.

Where do I fall

I do not know.

Maybe, I do not wish to know.

And then, right then,

Just when my thoughts seem to convulse around me,

is when my train,

the vehicle in my sojourn,

rips across the darkness,

and emerges out the dark tunnel

into the brightness of the day.

I was right,

there was indeed,

bright light cometh the end of the tunnel.

The Fruitless Wait

You didn’t turn up.

As the train chugged,

leaving behind the station platform,

the hawkers and vendors stay back,

counting the business they got

from the train just departing.

Fresh in anticipation,

about the next train to arrive

As the one after that

and the one after that

and the one after.

They have a hope,

a hope that hinges on the train coming next.

But for me,

out of patience

out of hope,

this was the train I took.

Whether it turns out,

to be a trip to glory,

or one to obscurity

only time will tell.

But I did wait on the precipice

before I boarded for my voyage.

I did wait for you,

I waited in the hope

that you will come to the station

that you will take me somewhere.

To live the life we so much dreamt,

to live the life, you always promised.

I kept my part of the bargain,

leaving everyone behind,

I came to the station

and I waited.

For you to arrive

And for us to depart.

An hour turned into two,

and two into four.

There I was standing solitary

among a crowd of humanity

with tickets in hand

and destinations in mind.

I was numb,

no ticket in hand,

no end in thought.

All I wanted

was for me to be with you.

And then it dawned,

painfully indeed

that you weren’t coming.

Refused to accept it I did

but truth was truth indeed,

whether I liked it or not.

And here I find myself on this train,

no ticket in hand,

no end in thought,

and no destination in mind.

These tracks will lead me

to where my destiny awaits.

Whether it turns out

to be a trip to glory,

or one to obscurity

Only time will tell.

But I did wait on the precipice

before I boarded for my voyage.

Goodbye my friend,

goodbye indeed.

Goodbye forever.

Rains

As I look out the window,

of the metro train,

the journey I am a part of,

rather the sojourn is a part of me.

The monsoon is here alright,

the drops of rain show no mercy

as they pound the roof of my coach.

I sigh at the sight,

my station is a few minutes away.

I know the rains won’t abate

when the train pulls into my stop.

The files in my hand will be drenched,

the office reports I take home daily to read.

Oh and what about the chocolates

I got for my kid?

He sure won’t be happy

if I bring them home

as drenched as it can get.

My trousers, my wallet

everything’ll get wet.

I cursed the rain,

couldn’t you have come a bit later?

And I cursed myself,

for not taking my umbrella to work that morn.

My eyes fell on the girl sitting opposite my seat,

she had this charm in her eyes,

seeing the raindrops fall to ground.

And when I looked at her closely,

I realized it was someone I knew.

It was me who it was.

The only thing different from then

is the clock.

Rains were heaven-sent back in the days.

The first day of the monsoon

vivid in my memories,

as I used to run out of my house to get drenched,

the incessant scolding of my parents unheeded.

The sweet smell of the rain

and the total drenching in her glory

was worth the punishment to come.

Or so, was the thought.

Getting drenched on way back from school,

was a ritual as religious as any other.

There was never a question,

the umbrella tucked in my school bag

by a loving mother.

But the umbrella seldom used to get wet,

the drench was all absorbed by me with glee.

Notebooks and textbooks would get wet,

no, I did not care.

There’d be lollipops in the pocket,

that the raindrops would attempt to dissolve,

but never mind the rains,

the drenched lollipops never tasted any diminished

than their originals.

The train slowed approaching my station,

I awoke from my reverie.

The smile I had on my face

was as close it came to the monsoon glee.

But there still was the rain,

there still was a case for my office files to get wet.

Not to mention the chocolates in my pocket.

As I stepped out of the train doors

into the torrent,

the smile was gone

and all I was doing

was running to save the files and the chocolates

running to save them

from the gift of nature.

And running out the station,

leaving a carefree part of me far behind.

Mumbai Mail

Chhatrapati Sivaji Terminus is the busiest station of India. At any given instant of time, any part of the day, the station is flocked with people and thus, never short on activity. People from all walks of life – from the mighty company executive to homeless peddlers for whom the domes served as a roof atop their heads, always amalgamated with the station. For some, this might mark the beginning of a journey, maybe an anxious or an enthusiastic omen, for some others, it is signals a terminus, the end of a pleasant or an unpleasant voyage. It was in the middle of this hubbub of activity that I found myself a few minutes after the sun set on the famed Mumbai skyline.

I had a train to catch. The outbound Mumbai Mail to Chennai which would be departing in an hour and a half. And I had two three tier Air Conditioned coach tickets with me. I picked up a coffee from a stall. I moved towards the center of the station where there were a group of chairs for waiting, perched atop one of them and started the agonizing wait. The station in all its grandeur, never failed to capture my imagination. I watched as railway network put people on the move. There were laughter of joy, sighs of relief, and tears of painful farewell. The station, as would be the case with most stations on the railway network, was a cornucopia of emotions. My mind was not focused. I realized that I should be feeling tense, but I was surprisingly calm. I had seen in movies that during such moments, your mind wades through a mélange of moments that happened all through your life – the good ones, the bad ones and the ugly ones. But there was nothing of that sort puttering through my mind, it was empty. The group of girls sitting near her were chattering non-stop about the latest Salman Khan movie. She longed for serenity, some peace. Mumbai was a tough place to find peace, and the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus was the last place one could hope to find serenity. Finally the chatter reached such a point that she could no longer take it. She picked up her bag and moved, in measured paces, towards the main entrance of the station. There was always a swarm of people pushing into the station every minute, and it was where she hoped to catch a glimpse of Sooraj.

As she waited, she was fidgeting with her mobile. For the past two hours she had been calling him, but there had been no response. She had messaged him multiple times, to call her back but there was neither the call back she had been waiting for nor a message indicating that he wasn’t in a position to. She finished three coffees one after another, and kept waiting. She waited for him in the busy railway station for more than an hour. Inside she was debating if she should simple walk away and board the train. She had the ticket, after all. And he didn’t know the details of which compartment they were reserved in. She had to take care of everything, from start to end because he was not in a position to. As if on cue, the announcement came, “Passengers, your kind attention! Train No. so-and-so Mumbai Chennai Mail from Mumbai CST to Chennai Central will depart from Platform No. 6 at two-three-one-five hours.” This was followed by announcements in Hindi and Marathi. She looked at her watch, and then her mobile. No messages. The train, if on schedule, was due to depart in twenty minutes.

She had to make a decision. She could not go back. She carefully stared at the net batch of incoming crowd pushing and shoving to get inside the station. No, Sooraj wasn’t there. She turned around and started walking in the direction of Platform No. 6. The decision had been made. There was going to be no more waiting for him.

She boarded the Mumbai Mail, located her berth, placed her bags and settled in. After the tumultuous past couple of hours, the silence around her seemed eery. She moved to the door. Maybe she was hoping if he did manage to come at this last minute, that he could still find her. The engine blew its horn, signaling the intent to commence the journey. The guard flashed the green light. And slowly but steadily, the lights of Chhatrapati Sivaji Terminus was moving against the direction she was going. She was still at the door and her coach had almost reached the end of the station when her mobile phone signaled a message received, “My wife came back today. She is still not willing to divorce me, we fought over it again today. I couldn’t get out of the house. Let’s make a plan for another day when she will be away at her parents’ place. Come to Marine Drive tomorrow evening, we’ll decide.”

Without a second thought, she instantly replied, “I waited for you, you didn’t turn up. You cheated me, you are cheating your wife as well. Don’t wait for me, I am going where the Mumbai Mail takes me. Goodbye.” She sent the message and switched her mobile off. Tomorrow was going to be a fresh day, a fresh start. 

Compassion

Indian Railways. One of the largest employers in the world. And he was a part of that.

He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.

He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.

Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.

The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.

It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.

He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.

And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.

Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.

Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.

This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.

The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.

Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”

That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.

The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.

He had evening duty that day.

As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.

2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.

He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.

The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.

He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.

At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.

“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.

He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.

When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.

He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.

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The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read

“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division

Respected Sir,

SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.

My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.

I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.

Thank You
“

The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.