the 9.30 from tollygunge

The Tollygunge terminus of the Calcutta metro railway is busiest between 8 and 9 am in the morning. The train takes fully eighteen minutes to travel the ten stations from Tollygunge to Central Avenue. This, of course, extends to nineteen, sometimes twenty, if country bumpkins get stuck in the sliding door, when the driver or the guard walks down the entire platform. The walk from the Central station to the back gate of Presidency takes ten minutes, eight with the shortcut through the Medical College. Class starts at nine. That meant, in order to slip through the rear entrance of Physics Lecture Room 3 and avoid the tongue lashing that inevitably came with a late entrance, Biplab had to catch the 8.30 from Tollygunge. Missing that train meant missing the first lecture. Now that would be a pity as the first lecture was either Classical mechanics or Mathphys, both of which were rather well taught. Biplab was one of the few of Presidency who did not actually have either the self confidence that came from obvious natural ability, or the non-self confidence that came from being a member of the ‘canteen honours’ clique. As a result, he had a somewhat large chip on his shoulder, but managed to smile and hide it well.

Ankita lived in Golf Green. She was beautiful in the soft toned way that most Bengalis chose to define beauty. She was also somewhat well off, at least by the standards of those who make do in a matchbox sized flat in south Calcutta with four other family members. She studied sociology, had all the right friends, most of them from the same posh school that she came from. For these, and other reasons that Biplab was perhaps afraid to admit, even to himself, she was unattainable. She took the same train as him, but she didn’t have to. Her classes started at ten, and the first hour was spent over cha and adda at the canteen. Nevertheless, Biplab waited for her each morning. The only time he had ever come close to even talking to her was when her season ticket died in the machine and she had to buy a day ticket. After rummaging in her handbag for a bit, she turned to him, standing patiently in line behind her and said, ‘can you lend me a rupee?’ This was the opportunity he had been waiting for, mentally rehearsing for. And instead of chatting her up the way he should have, he mutely handed her the change and said all of nothing.

Avinash suffered from juvenile diabetes. No sweets; none of the delicacies that only Bengali cuisine excels in. That also meant daily injections of insulin. Avinash was the only one of the three Ganguly boys who had stayed at home. Borda was an engineer at Jamshedpur, working for Tata Steel and Mejda was a something or the other at Uco Bank in Bangalore. Maybe he should have also left, but then someone had to look after the parents. Maybe if they had had children, things would have been different. But Mina was,.. well, was infertile. It wasn’t that dramatic at all, but something had gone wrong, slowly and surely. Perhaps it started when Borda and Mejda started bringing their children home in summer. Amidst the laughter and jostling, the children first picked up the smell of sorrow. Their parents caught on soon enough. And then, they stopped coming. After the grandparents passed away, there was no reason to keep visiting Calcutta either. And so Mina and Avinash became strangers. Yes, she cooked and washed, packed his lunchbox and kept the flat clean. Her best hours were at the primary school where she taught. And he started hating having to come home.

The ‘Up’ platform at Tollygunge. 9.25 am. Passengers line up at picked spots. Commuters know which doors on which compartments will open closest to the escalators at their respective stations. The little morning gossip that one had time for competes with some silly advert for chewing gum on the overhead TVs and the soft Rabindrasangeet from the PA speakers. Studies have shown that Rabindrasangeet ‘calms’ people down, whatever that means. This and the white line which one is NOT supposed to cross until the train has come to a halt and the doors have opened are the steps that the authorities have taken after some hapless person jumped to his death just as the train was pulling in a few months ago.

9.28 am. The train is pulling in. the conversations have been temporarily paused as passengers jostle for space on the crowded platform. Ankita is standing a few feet further down from Biplab, just in line for her favourite spot, standing near the vestibule. The driver’s cabin passed Biplab and he heard a girl scream. He turned just in time to see someone jump straight into the path of the incoming train. And in that moment of incredulity, all that registered was that the jumper was still holding on to his lunch bag. And then all hell broke loose as people trying to get away collided with people trying to get a closer look. He saw Ankita stumble and then get knocked down. It wasn’t easy, pushing through the crowd, but he got to her, put an arm around her and led her out. The turnstiles had been opened, no one was checking tickets. She was shaking slightly, he saw. “Can I get you a cup of tea or something?” he asked. “Tea would be good”. There was already a crowd growing outside the station as they walked to the cha-wallah. “Jhontu duto doodh cha. Aar ekta Gold Flake.” He lit up and she said, “I didn’t know you smoked.” Reaching out for the tea he replied “trying to quit.”