Met this annoying woman from Mumbai that didn't know any English. She wanted to know where I was from and where I was going and why I did not like Bombay. She hated Pune.
Anyway, fuck that.
She was getting bored in the waiting-room and asked how come I wasn't. So I told her I didn't get bored, and besides, I would fill in my spare time either by reading or writing. So she said that yes, she had noticed me scribbling, and did I do any serious writing. I pulled out a copy of a rather amateur story I'd written. She saw that it was in English and asked me to give her the gist of it in Hindi. It was a feat that far outdid the original achievement of having written the work. But I was prouder of myself after it. She remarked that people like me would find it easy to write because we haven't struggled in life. We're full of dandy thoughts, the typical gardener's offspring. And we don't have much to do otherwise, anyway. My defense was interrupted by a call. It was Ateek. At least that's what he'd said his name was. We headed out for lunch with his friend Arif, 3 of us on my bike with all my belongings. Hogged, they paid. Clicked some pictures on the way back. Returned, then sat around the bike.
The bike was supposed to be packed by the railway staff, and sent via train to Delhi the next morning. I was to leave by the 6:15 pm train, post some advice I received from an old man that morning that I should abandon my cross-country exercise on the bike and head to Delhi by train instead. It was easy to convince me, considering the scene of the event was by the side of a dusty road where I'd just had a toss, thanks to a wheelie-popping tractor that my skidding bike couldn't avoid. And I wasn't sure about the shape my bike was in. I later discovered the gear shift was bent -- not a big deal, but then, what next. So we headed to station, Ateek [dark-skinned youth randomly selected by old man from the crowd of gawking locals] carrying heavy haversack, me trying to find the gear shift.
So like I was saying, we waited by the bike. Then the agent who was in charge of packing called Ateek aside and asked him why he was hanging around with me. He wanted to know if Ateek thought there was any money to be made. Then Ateek and Arif moved off, to get the jerry-can to empty the tank of fuel. They never came back. I called Ateek on the number he'd given me, but the kid who picked up said he'd never heard the name. I called up the other number he'd called from, but that turned out to be a public booth.
Why am I even here? I was on my way to Delhi by bike because I missed my train. My journey took me from Pune to Ahmednagar to Aurangabad to Bhusaval to Muktainagar and then across the MP border into Ichchapur where I spent the night in a bus before crashing into a tractor 20 kms away at 9 the next morning.
And the crash is why I'm sitting here waiting at this station for a train that's going to be 13 hours late. Yes, thirteen. The unlucky number. Unlucky for some. So I'm sitting in a waiting-room as I write this, smelling of petrol. Why petrol? Because I had to empty the tank before they could pack the bike up. 5 litres [or so] I extracted, and emptied into a jerry-can. I would have had less if the lout who'd tried stealing my petrol as I slept last night had been successful. The jerry-can full of petrol I gave back to the guy who had let me have it. This did not go down well with the railway staff, even though I lied and said I sold it for 200 bucks. They said I could have gotten a better deal. Well, I couldn't. I'm in a tier-III town, I have a haversack and a laptop bag and a helmet to lug around, and I've had to carry them on every trip to the ATM, of which I've made at least a dozen. Why? To see if my money had arrived. If it didn't, I would have been forced to leave my bike behind in Burhanpur, at a parking lot that Ateek said would be safe, because he would be there. But he isn't now, and I suppose that's because the bike isn't going to be there either. It's going to be on its way to Delhi tomorrow morning, and I will check on it after work, the day after. Work, naukri. The reason I'm off to Delhi in the first place. I called up Naved, the director at Shop to explain that my train would now be delayed by 13 hours. He said that's alright, no pressing urgency, relax and come. That's exactly what I'm going to do. I have my camera, Ernest Hemingway, and my pen and paper. So far. The end.
The bike was supposed to be packed by the railway staff, and sent via train to Delhi the next morning. I was to leave by the 6:15 pm train, post some advice I received from an old man that morning that I should abandon my cross-country exercise on the bike and head to Delhi by train instead. It was easy to convince me, considering the scene of the event was by the side of a dusty road where I'd just had a toss, thanks to a wheelie-popping tractor that my skidding bike couldn't avoid. And I wasn't sure about the shape my bike was in. I later discovered the gear shift was bent -- not a big deal, but then, what next. So we headed to station, Ateek [dark-skinned youth randomly selected by old man from the crowd of gawking locals] carrying heavy haversack, me trying to find the gear shift.
So like I was saying, we waited by the bike. Then the agent who was in charge of packing called Ateek aside and asked him why he was hanging around with me. He wanted to know if Ateek thought there was any money to be made. Then Ateek and Arif moved off, to get the jerry-can to empty the tank of fuel. They never came back. I called Ateek on the number he'd given me, but the kid who picked up said he'd never heard the name. I called up the other number he'd called from, but that turned out to be a public booth.
Why am I even here? I was on my way to Delhi by bike because I missed my train. My journey took me from Pune to Ahmednagar to Aurangabad to Bhusaval to Muktainagar and then across the MP border into Ichchapur where I spent the night in a bus before crashing into a tractor 20 kms away at 9 the next morning.
And the crash is why I'm sitting here waiting at this station for a train that's going to be 13 hours late. Yes, thirteen. The unlucky number. Unlucky for some. So I'm sitting in a waiting-room as I write this, smelling of petrol. Why petrol? Because I had to empty the tank before they could pack the bike up. 5 litres [or so] I extracted, and emptied into a jerry-can. I would have had less if the lout who'd tried stealing my petrol as I slept last night had been successful. The jerry-can full of petrol I gave back to the guy who had let me have it. This did not go down well with the railway staff, even though I lied and said I sold it for 200 bucks. They said I could have gotten a better deal. Well, I couldn't. I'm in a tier-III town, I have a haversack and a laptop bag and a helmet to lug around, and I've had to carry them on every trip to the ATM, of which I've made at least a dozen. Why? To see if my money had arrived. If it didn't, I would have been forced to leave my bike behind in Burhanpur, at a parking lot that Ateek said would be safe, because he would be there. But he isn't now, and I suppose that's because the bike isn't going to be there either. It's going to be on its way to Delhi tomorrow morning, and I will check on it after work, the day after. Work, naukri. The reason I'm off to Delhi in the first place. I called up Naved, the director at Shop to explain that my train would now be delayed by 13 hours. He said that's alright, no pressing urgency, relax and come. That's exactly what I'm going to do. I have my camera, Ernest Hemingway, and my pen and paper. So far. The end.
