The Last Journey

Let’s admit it once in our life we have somehow got ourselves out of a complete disaster. And once out of it we never look back to thank the one guy who helped us get out of the fox hole. We are cool as long as we can save our own, everything else just isn’t important enough. We ourselves feel offended when not appreciated duly for our deeds (good ones). But ask yourself this, ”how many times have you made sure to give the deserving his due”. This story is not asking for much, it’s just saying to spare a seconds thought for the guy who perhaps fixed your car, sanctioned you holiday, keeps your house clean or perhaps saved your life…

“keep your luggage chained, don’t eat from the stalls and write to me when you reach home” called out the middle aged woman in a parrot green sari as she saw the car vanish behind the sea of dust and fog rising from the kaccha road. Piyush kept waving in her direction till she was no longer at sight and then settled down in the passenger seat of the van. The city air brushing his forehead was soothing. He looked past the busy streets, replaying in his mind the best of moments here at Guwahati. This was the first time he had got the chance to play for his university cricket team at the inter-state championship. They lost. He had planned to head straight back home, but his aunt had persuaded him to spend the ‘poush parban’ with them. It’s been a long time since he last got to taste auntie’s delicious ‘pitha’, so he gave in willingly.

‘I should have told mom about the change in plans, she would be mad as hell, at me’ he told himself. A worried and angry mom waiting at home. trouble.

He considered making small talks with the driver, but decided against it, the city landscape was a better time killer.

The van finally stopped after an hour. Piyush looked through the window checking the surroundings, his eye finally resting on the weathered sigh board-GUWAHATI RAILWAY STATION.

We are here sir’ said the driver

It had always fascinated piyush to hear the way the driver always referred to him as ‘sir’. Automatically making him act like a man with a purpose.

He took his luggage, a black backpack, settled the payment with the driver and entered the station.

And suddenly there was a lot of noise, the passengers, the vendors, the rag pickers, coolies. No one was talking, they were all shouting, shouting at the top of their voice. People from every walk of life were a part of this gathering. The whole atmosphere intoxicated with the feel of movement and life. Still the movement never turns into a chaos, because underneath it all lays a balance that can only be felt not explained. That never changed.

Piyush found himself a quiet corner with an unoccupied bench. Sitting there he checked the train schedule chart.

His train was running an hour late. It always has been.

‘

One hour to myself’ he said checking out the surroundings.

His gaze fell on a fruit seller, probably not having the best of days, looking at his large stack one can make up that he had had no customers today.

‘I should buy some, a little something to take back home, not a bad idea’

‘How much?’ piyush asked, coming to the fruit seller.

‘4rs per kg are the mangoes and 5rs the apples’ he replied knowing better that this was another 

‘no buyer’ of the day.

‘I will take a kilo of those’

Now he looked up and took notice. He was a man in his forties. Wore a red towel on his head, tied like a turban. A neatly cut moustache and the tired eyes showing his exhaustion.

He packed the fruits. “going home?”

“How did you guess?”

“Why else would you be buying them?” the fruit seller added with a smile

“It might as well be for a friend”

“Yeah right! Boys your age don’t take fruits for friends, I am old enough to know that”

Piyush laughed “may be so”

He sat down on the empty wooden fruit box next to the fruit seller. He seemed like a jolly person, someone to make conversation with. finally. And he also needed to get through the one hour, waiting for the train. Small talk to kill time sounded like a good idea.

“You player?” asked the fruit seller pointing towards his backpack with the bat handle peeping out.

 “Yeah, for my university”

And they talked about the cricket match, the fruit seller’s girl child he couldn’t send to school. His income did not permit, he said. They talked about almost everything and anything to get them through the next hour. Finally there conversation was halted by the cracking voice on the speaker announcing the arrival of the train to Dimapur.

“The train to Dimapur via Lamding will arrive shortly on platform number 4” announced a woman on the speakers.

“Where’s platform 4?” piyush asked, his eyes studying the dilapidated hoarding announcing the platform numbers.

“Take the over bridge and go to the other side of the station, there’s your platform 4”

“Ok then, bye I guess” piyush gave the old guy a thank-you-stranger smile, picked up his bag and headed for the over bridge.

As he fought his way through the incoming crowd his thoughts for a moment again drifted to the fruit seller.

‘What a nice fellow. What was his name again?’ at that moment it occurred to him, I didn’t even ask his name. ‘oh well, it’s not as if I would be writing him a letter any time soon!’

Finally on the other side, standing under the hoarding which had a ‘4’ scrolled on it, he saw a cargo train enter the station. It halted with one of its boogies positioned right in front of him. Finally he heard the whistling of his train.it was still out of sight.

A minute later he could now see it. He turned his head once more to greet his transport.

And at that precise moment a thunder engulfed the entire atmosphere. The sound was so violent it made piyush collapse on the ground. Almost bursting his ear drums. Instinct made him duck for shelter under his own hands. A bomb had just gone off. It took another thirty seconds for his mind to recover from the jolt and accept the situation.

When he finally looked around the sight made him go weak in the knees. Men, women and children lay on the floor bleeding through burned skins. The boogie of the cargo train had saved him from the full thrust of it. Glass and metal burned together giving the air a sick feel, some screamed for help, some screamed in fear and they all were running for the only exit. Some fell in mid run and got run over by the crowd.

Piyush made his way for the over bridge. Fighting his way through the fear stuck crowd that had gone wild in chaos. As he reached the other side he saw the carnage. It was even worse on this side. The bomb had probably gone off in this side of the station. People ran over the dead bodies as they fought to escape. Some bodies did not have a hand, some had a leg missing or the head. The ones with their head intact were so badly burned that he couldn’t even make out their faces. The sight made him want to vomit.

As he was a few meters way from the exit he turned his head again, he saw the place where he sat with the fruit seller, nothing existed of it.

The fruit seller. He was the one who had advised him to go to the other side of the station. If it was not for that old man, he would now have been a part of those still lying dead bodies. The old fellow had no way of surviving this but unknowingly, still, he had saved his life

His heart sank deep.

“I didn’t even ask his name” 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Writer’s note-this is a true story .the character piyush is inspired by my uncle (dad’s younger brother) who died two years ago after being kidnapped in Nagaland. He is not among us today but he lives on in the hearts of his near and dear ones.