My Guide at Luxor

Life at work had been a bit stressful. Even for a phlegmatic person like me, events in the few weeks after the Revolution had made me yearn for a break. I had just smuggled my elder daughter from India for a break from her onerous medical curriculum - without letting her mom and sis know, giving them a huge dose of ‘shock and awe’. Younger one had a long weekend coming up at school. My wife, concerned at the black circles showing up beneath my eyes, suggested that we take a short trip to Luxor. For a change, without much dithering or discussions, I had our trip organised in a jiffy, much to her astonishment (I have this reputation of making lovely vacation plans, but never realising them!).

We boarded the EgyptAir flight from Cairo on a lovely morning. The kids were chattering away dime a dozen, giggling, fighting ... The younger one having learnt some elementary stuff about “romance and love” in the last couple of years, never missed a chance to demonstrate her erudite understanding on the subject, by teasing the elder one about a purported pairing – up back in college. While the kids kept up their banter, I cosied up with wifey, enjoying the languor that was settling in, after the hectic phase at work.

We landed at Luxor, and were greeted by Khaled, the rep from the travel agency. I always admire the exuberance these guys have, lifting the spirits of even the weariest traveler. Not knowing that we had been in Egypt for a year now, he let go of the clichéd greeting – looking at me, he asks, “Your three daughters?” Not wanting to spoil his morning, I and my wife played along and feigned happiness and clarified to him about 2 daughters and a wife!

As we drove into the town of Luxor the conversation veered on the Revolution, the tanks at the Government buildings bearing testimony that this town had also played its role. Khaled’s eyes were filled with passion as he narrated his participation in the protests and that he actually had been beaten up. There was a sense of immense pride in his voice for being a part of bringing about a new beginning in Egypt. He was filled with vibrant optimism and was sure that everyone’s lives would have dramatic changes soon filled with the prosperity and freedom, they desired so much. I could almost visualise the rainbow and bright happy colours that his mind painted of the future.

We reached the lovely resort and were ushered into the lounge for the customary welcome drink. With the family relaxing and enjoying the ambiance, I walked up to the reception to complete the check in formalities. I was greeted by Mariam (as I quickly read her name tag) who welcomed me with a demure, polite smile. I could sense something missing – while the courtesy was there, there appeared to be a melancholy in her eyes. I picked up a conversation with her on the hotel occupancy, which she said, with a tinge of sadness, that it had dropped drastically and hoped it would change for the better soon. That she was alone behind the counter and the paucity of porters in the lobby made me wonder, if this downturn in tourists had caused layoffs of some of her friends – and maybe she was uncertain of what the future held for her.

Trying to brighten up the gloomy conversation, Mariam cheerfully announced that she would be giving us a free upgrade to a luxury suite, as a promotional offer. I could not help but notice the irony of the fact that I had been offered me a special package, because there was a downturn (indirectly impacting someone else's life adversely). I went excitedly and shared the good news of our room upgrade with my family. But somewhere, I could not get Mariam’s sad countenance out of my mind. I recalled having looked up for the meaning and etymology of the name Mariam – amongst Mother Mary, it also had other transliterations which meant ‘Sea of Bitterness / Sorrow’ and ‘Uncertainty’. The changes that had happened in the recent past seemed to explain Mariam’s behaviour – she was uncertain and her thoughts were clouded with pessimism on the turn of events.

The next day, a professional guide was to take us through the tourist attractions of Luxor. We were warned to start out early, since the temperatures were rising and it could get hot by noon. Not wanting to get rush anyone, I let the kids dabble with their croissants and cup cakes. We were about 30 minutes late, when we saw a stranger approach our table and introduce himself as Ahmed, our guide. When our eyes met, I could notice a stoic but warm expression in his. Without displaying any emotions, he smiled and said that he would be waiting outside. My elder one got the message and quickly put her chocolate cake on a tissue and exhorted us to move on to the van!

Once we had set out to the Valley of Kings, Ahmed spoke into the PA system and welcomed us on the tour. He then shared that it was a very special day for him – it was his birthday!! His 50^th !! We all effusively wished him. I am sure on this special day he would have loved to share it amongst his family members. But here he was, on a Friday morning, taking this tardy group, to show them the tombs of the Pharaohs, which he would have been to, at least 5000 times in his 30 years as a guide. But I guess, with the tourists coming only in trickles, he chose not to lose this day of earning, which would be more important in the current situation, than celebrating his 50^th birthday at home.

My conversation, as has been my recent wont, veered towards understanding his views of the changes that have happened. Ahmed seemed to have absolute clarity – this change was good for the country. But he was also cognisant of the fact that he may not see the benefits soon. His thoughts were on his children and he was confident that now a better future awaited them. His practical mind without any ambiguity was clear that such changes needed time. He was satisfied with the certainty of the change although knowing well that would not be a beneficiary. He was not worried about the present or the near future, but was happy it was headed in the right direction.

We spent the morning entering the tombs, deep in the arid mountains, in the Valley of the Kings and Queens. We were really amazed at the elaborate preparations made for their after-life. On the way back to the Hotel, after visiting the Temple of Luxor, it suddenly struck me that we had not seen any royal palaces that the Pharaohs would have lived in. When I queried Ahmed on this, he explained that the Pharaohs lived in ordinary, simple houses in Luxor village. For them, it was the next life which was so much more important and therefore all their efforts and investments were for their lives after their death in this world.

We were to leave the next day. My black circles had lightened up a bit. My mind was free of my daily routines – but was filled with questions. Who was going to be right in their assessment of the future? Was it the youthful, energetic, optimist Khaled ? Or was it melancholic Mariam, who was uncertain and diffident about the future? Or was it pragmatic Ahmed, with his deep insights predicting the right future?

I decided to take a walk and mull over this conundrum as the sun began to set over the Nile. The walking paths were vacant and I chose a bench overlooking the Nile. I noticed the Little White Egret birds gliding over the waters. I was struck by their serenity in their movements as they flew over the Nile. So much turmoil had happened in the last few months, but for these little white egrets, nothing had changed! 

My gaze went to the Nile, which was looking even more beautiful with the colors of the setting sun giving it a glow like never before. The Pharaohs of Luxor would have savored such moments and many, many others in the thousands of years since then. The revered Nile was there then and is here today – Pharaohs like Akhenathan, Cleopatra, Hatsheput, Ramses ... all understood that there will be events which may appear to be dramatic and of great importance for the moment - in our individual lives, in our community and country – but these are insignificant compared to the passage of eternal time. The Nile will outlive them and will forever continue to be a source of life, happiness and joy for generations to come.

While each of them strived to leave a legacy behind, they clearly realised and believed that our lives that we know and live today is irrelevant in the larger context of what after-life has in store for us. 

And with that, I dropped the question from my mind on whether Khaled, Mariam or Ahmed would be right. At peace and with the understanding that the Nile exists and will continue to exist, giving life to many generations and civilisations - as we live our event-full lives in this world with so much excitement and emotions, which  are of no real consequence. 

I had received my Guidance at Luxor.

(Names have been changed to protect identity)

Learning the Art of being Unhappy - Part 4 (Finale)

(Please read Part 1/2/3 prior to reading this final Part) 

     

Sometime in the early 2000s ....it was the new millennium being ushered with millions of dollars having being spent on the Y2K bug – planes were supposed to crash, trains come to a standstill, computers were to malfunction - but nothing happened!! Life went on, as it has been for the past so many centuries!

In those years travel in India had transformed, with many private airline companies operating – Modiluft, Damania Airways, East – West ...to name a few, apart from the quintessential Indian Airlines. This meant that a lot of our travel was happening by air. The competition was cut throat – with each airline trying to outdo the other!! The cuisine had exquisite items you had never tried earlier; the cutlery was fit for a king and of course, liquor was being served to the ever thirsty Indians. Within months, there were news items of inebriated passengers letting their true colors show and the government had to step in, banning liquor in domestic flights, much to the relief of the air hostesses. The exceptions were those of Indian Airlines, where the passengers were (and are) terrified of the ladies in orange, and used to have a couple of pegs, to guarantee a nightmare free journey.

My career at that stage required me to travel – economy class for domestic travel and business for international. Soon I was caught up in the game of making apparent rapid progress in life – this was based on my status in the frequent flyer program which all airlines had introduced – blue, silver, gold and platinum!! And with that my expectations as a Privilege club member kept soaring – whether it was the separate queue at check in, the lounge on the first floor, the tele–check in .. all these privileges pampered my senses.

So much so, that there would be occasions that I would march to the check in counter and flashing my frequent flyer status, would demand an upgrade to business class, with the free voucher I had. The exhausted girl behind the counter would politely explain that business class is full and an upgrade would not be possible. I take umbrage at this rejection, my face contorts and I sarcastically comment that the vouchers are useless and the airlines never intended to provide this upgrade.

I am so unhappy that I did not get an upgrade to business class...forgetting that I had spent so many happy moments travelling in unreserved coaches or sitting in the foot board of the trains feeling the rush of the air.

I had reached late to the airport, having set out late from one of my factories. I need to go and have the privileged coffee in the lounge and smoke my last cigarettes, before the flight. But I find a long, serpentine queue at Security. I curse under my breath and wonder when Indian airports will improve! I am frustrated by the time I reach the x-ray counter. The vigilant security officer frisks me, bending down probably for the thousandth time on that day, but still with the alertness only a diligent officer can have. I collect my hand baggage and with a frown on my face walk on towards the departure gate.

My unhappiness grows with the fact I do not have time to go to the lounge for the complimentary snacks and last cigarette ...forgetting that I was always happy buying the tea in the platform amidst all other passengers and urchins, without a privilege card.

I settle down at the departure gate after having purchased a coffee. The lucid voice on the well designed PA system announces all flights but mine. Till I hear one, which I was dreading, that my flight is late by 30 minutes due to traffic congestion over the airport. My exasperation increases and I approach the ground staff belligerently, asking them for an explanation as to why I was not informed earlier through sms before I left for the airport.

I am so very upset with the delay now – that I want to scream ... forgetting that I used to be thrilled if the train reached within 60 minutes of its scheduled time. Even if it was delayed further, the time was well spent with family, friends or books.

My flight is announced, and the co passengers rush towards the gate, but form an orderly queue. I join in and glance at the adjoining gate where an Air Deccan Flight is boarding. In those early days, Air Deccan ticket cost was half the price of other airlines. Most of the passengers in that flight would be travelling for the first time, as Captain Gopinath had dreamt of. I look at them with disdain and feel good to belong to an upper strata and not the cattle class of the Air Deccan passengers. (A bit of digression here – I would urge all of you to read Captain Gopinath’s autobiography “Just Fly” – it will give you an insight on what an amazing person he is and how he has lived his dreams).

A couple of years later, after Shashi Tharoor’s commented that Economy is indeed the cattle class, I now crave for business class and feel totally dissatisfied travelling in economy class.... forgetting that I have travelled through all classes and had always been happy.

I board the flight and walk towards my seat. Since I was late, I have not got my preferred “emergency” row seat, with extra leg space. Worse still, I have 13 B – which is the middle seat. As luck would have it, on one side I have a man with hairy forearms twice mine which have already invaded quarter of my seat space. On the other side, there is this suave gentleman, who seems to have seen only success in his life and truly believes the world belongs to him – his elbow covered by his Armani suit has occupied the entire arm rest in between us. I try to nudge my elbows and seek a few inches on the arm rests, which I believe are legally mine – but of no avail. I seethe within and not wanting to create a scene, keep my arms on my lap and try to overcome the anger through meditation.

My blood pressure has risen in trying to contain this anger - of being taken advantage and not getting my due.... forgetting the fact, that in so many train journeys, passengers have shared their seat with me and many a occasion I have let another sit on my berth – without any rancour or unhappiness.

Having reconciled to the fact that my hands will be restricted well within the confines of the armrests of 13B, my attention is drawn towards my legs – and I start comparing with Kingfisher – which has at least one and a half inch of more leg space. And I now wish I had chosen Kingfisher instead. Apart from the leg space, the “legs view” of the pretty air hostesses, in their tight red miniskirts makes me take an instant decision to ask my secretary to henceforth book my tickets only on KF. And then my mind starts to vacillate – I had seen some of the air hostesses of Indigo at the airport – they also had a sexy designer outfits. Or should it be Spicejet..?

My mind is confused, I am not sure which is better and which choice will make me happy.... forgetting the fact that in my early years, whether it was the Neelachal Express or Indian Airlines, there was no choice, but it never was a cause of unhappiness.

My confused mind is interrupted by the air hostess in blue – she hands over my tray, without the customary question of “veg or non-veg”. I notice that the aluminium foil on the main dish has a tiny green sticker, marked “veg”. I look up at her with astonishment and say that I would like to have a non-veg meal. She apologizes sweetly and regrets that they have run out of non veg meals on the flight. That was indeed the last straw on this terrible flight. I start creating a ruckus and demand that the senior flight attendant meets me. She is extremely sorry too, but I am in no mood to listen. I decide to make them feel guilty and decide to skip dinner. They try to appease me with special dessert and fruits – but the status of the privilege club member has been affronted and I remain firm.

I am hungry but refuse to have the veg meal or the fruits – making my anger emotions and hormones hyper active.... forgetting the fact that I had really enjoyed the oily, spicy, unhygienic meals served on the trains or the poori aloo sabji on the railway platforms.

The flight lands after circling over the airport for over 40 minutes. Before the safety belt sign goes off, passengers are on their feet and take their baggage from the overhead bins. The aisle is packed and I remain squashed between hairy arms and Armani elbow. The latter starts speaking on his mobile loudly enough for all to hear – telling his chauffer (probably in a Mercedes) that he has landed and he should be out in about seven minutes. Not to be outdone, Mr Hairy arms also pulls out his mobile and hollers to his terrified wife that he would be home in 50 minutes and would have dinner. I am so disgusted by the hurry of the people to disembark and the cacophony of the personal calls made in public.

The disgust, the anger, the fatigue all churn up in a different sickening emotion.... forgetting that in all the train journeys, people were always in a hurry to disembark and board – but that had a reason, because the train had a limited stop – a little bit of anxiety was inevitable and the little pushing and shoving was understandable and did not create any negative emotion.

I call my driver and wait for him amidst the humidity, din and dust of the city. It seems like eternity before he gets the car and I collapse into the A/c and its quiet comfort. It is already 10.00 pm, but there is so much traffic and I wonder how much time it will take to reach home. It takes me about an hour to cover the 10 kilometers – and I  feel I will pass away in the car from sheer exhaustion.

I feel so tired and weak, as if I have completed a marathon journey.... forgetting the fact, my train journeys of over 2 days used to normally end in a cycle rickshaw or an auto  to reach home – but I used to still have a whole lot of energy and exuberance left within me.

I reach home and head for the shower – feeling dirty inside and on the outside. But there is no black soot of the train engine being washed off. Instead, it is the coat of negativity which has enveloped me that I am attempting to take off. 

The journeys were short, with special privileges as a frequent flyer, and everyone trying to give the best service – yet I complained, got angry, frustrated, depressed....

Maybe my expectations had increased. Maybe I had grown older. Maybe my lifestyle had changed. Maybe I had grown softer from increased comforts. Maybe I had learnt that only dissatisfaction is the seed to success. Maybe I always yearned for what I did not have.

Maybe I have now learnt the Art of being Unhappy.

“Happiness is the feeling you're feeling when you want to keep feeling it”.  ~Author Unknown

Learning the Art of being Unhappy - Part 3

Sometime in the early 1990s ....I have been now promoted, I travel by II A.C. – but my up-gradation from II class to the air conditioned luxury of Indian Railways, had to transition through the “First class” travel.

It was in 1989 that my life changed for the better; from being a carefree, irresponsible, selfish, individualistic being - I moved on to the stage in life that brought about plurality – got married!! This meant that I could not take any more journeys without a proper prior reservation; and of course, at least “First class” travels for the pretty woman who had just entered my life.

But those were early days in my career - I had got married even before I had completed a year and a half at my job. I remember that I had about a month’s saving, which was a paltry sum of Rs 3000!! To buy two first class tickets to Mysore, where I lived then, would have probably cost me half of my savings. I secretly hoped that Dad would purchase the tickets – a very understanding man, realizing my plight (and probably feeling sorry for me!), without even asking, he took care of it!

He did much more! Though he never displayed his romantic side (to us), he made sure that the reservation was made in a 2-berth, private coupe. Well, the second berth was a sheer waste of money, since we did not have any use of it. The journey from Cuttack to Mysore was around two days. It was a very eventful journey, but I think I will skip the details, lest this post be categorized as having “adult content”! 

We reached Bangalore, where we had to change trains. We had the porter move the scratch-free vip suitcases to the platform. It was quite evident that we were newly married and about to start a life of our own. This drew the attention of a slimy TTE (Travelling Ticket Examiner), who gleefully approached us, with his penalty book tucked under his crumpled black jacket. He points out at the 7 suitcases and starts making ominous gestures about them being overweight and that we need to pay a heavy fine. My face paled, I did not want my wife to think I was a loser in this first challenge to my valour. I regained my composure quickly and using all the tricks of bribing I had learnt during my student days, managed to get him off our backs with a 50 rupee note. 

My encounters with the TTEs were more frequent and more expensive than in my student days. Whether we had one berth short or had the unique RAC (Reservation Against Cancellation), I would trail the TTE across multiple coaches patiently for an hour or so - till such time he knew I was desperate and would part with a reasonable bribe.  Finally, I  would get the reservation and made sure that my Queen had a comfortable journey, always.

Our first little princess made her first travel when she was 9 months old. Queen insisted that First class was not good enough for the little one – so I traveled II AC for the first time. The blue berths in these coaches and the maroon vinyl flooring were so much cleaner. No longer do I have to worry about the open windows, where one is forever apprehensive about a pair of scruffy hands entering to filch our belongings. But the challenges were different. New rules on hygiene have been imposed in my life. Bed sheets were drawn up on the berth and not on the floor. No more drinking water with my cupped hands from the taps in the platforms. Now I had to try and get boiled water during a stop, so that we could make the Cerelac feed and Amulspray milk for the little one. 

Except for the first meal, we no longer needed to carry food in the train. The “super-fast” trains now have catering service. After an inexorable wait past the meal time, the bearer walks into your coach, balancing a dozen of trays which he sets on the floor. Newspapers are spread out on the berth to place the tiny trays. I carefully peel of the aluminum wrapping (quite impressed by its novelty, then) to ensure that there is minimal spillage. Then I dig in ravenously into the oily vegetable curry and the watery dal (lentil). The yogurt is as sour as the pickle, the rice is partially cooked and the chappatis resemble thick papads – but I make sure that I do total justice and make a futile attempt to get value for money by cleaning up the tray. Thereafter the trays are tucked below the berths balanced precariously on each other. I drink water from an unbranded plastic sachet given with the meal, unmindful of the fact that its source and quality is suspect. The AC coach is filled with the sour yogurt like aroma, till the next meal time.

Our second princess arrived six years later. As both of them grew up, our journeys kept evolving. If the initial years, were about carrying sufficient (and expensive) Huggie diapers and Johnson baby powder, the latter years were devoted to keeping them engaged in the long journeys. There was no need for tickets until they were 3 or 4 years old – so at that age, they learnt to share a berth with me, with our heads at opposite ends. My heart would swell with pride as they ran across the aisle to the adoring gazes of co-passengers. The upper berths were a relief – they would clamber up and down the 3 step ladder and spend hours there, giving us some much needed respite. As they grew up, they carried their own books and insisted on playing card games, which I dislike to this day.

The service in the second AC kept improving over time. There was an attendant in every coach now who would provide us with bed sheets, pillows and blankets. Occasionally, one would find a long strand of hair on the pillow cover and realise that it had been recycled, without a wash, as a cost saving measure. It was critical to take it off before wife noticed it the next morning and wondered how I could have been so adventurous. 

On waking up, I head towards the sink at the end of the coach. There is a crowd there and seeing their countenances I wonder whether Colgate has ever known the different ways of brushing teeth. Some of them have their mouth covered with froth of the tooth paste, others have it wide open and brush vigorously ... I quickly finish it the Colgate way and make a hasty retreat, so that I do not have to listen to the various sounds of oral health-care that follow. 

One has to use the axiom of “Look before you Leap” while using the toilets in the Indian Railways – irrespective of which class you travel. This entails gently turning the latch and cautiously opening the door. You have to be prepared for the worst, since some passengers would have been very careless when they exited. In which case, you immediately shut it and try your luck in the next one. In fact, I am eager to know the name of the bureaucrat who introduced western style toilets in the railways; I guess he spent his life in Europe without having a clue of Indian sanitary discipline! 

Before the end of the journey, one would start lining up the luggage near the door. Because there is this unique Indian Railways game, played in every coach, of every train, in every station, probably thousand times a day across the country. It involves Team A who need to alight versus Team B who needs to board the train. So when the train stops at the station, there this mad pushing and shoving by both the teams to enter and exit. In this game, both teams are the winners, since they always end up in achieving their end objectives – but with a few bruises and ill temper.

We alight after one such game and count the number of baggage and family members. My parents are there at the station to greet us and I notice that the queen and the princesses get all the attention. I am left with the luggage and couple of belligerent porters. I agree to their exorbitant demands and try to catch up with my family who are already half way to the waiting car.

The journeys were tough, but I always enjoyed myself and never complained.

Maybe it was the new found pleasures of a married life. Maybe it was the company of my Queen and Princesses that made me oblivious to the discomforts. Maybe it was the sense of responsibility that made me take care of my family first and resolving their difficulties became my priority.

... Maybe I had not yet learnt the Art of Being Unhappy....

(.... To be continued .....)

Learning the Art of being Unhappy - Part 2

Sometime in the early 1980s ....feeling on top of the world, with no worries in life. I had got through the JEE exam and secured a seat in Chemical Engineering at BHU – IT. Like the remaining 350 students in the batch, I had a complex - missed the extra “I”, that we were truly never an “IIT”.

But there was always one aspect that we were always one up on the IITians ... amidst all the sine, cos and tan problems that we solved...the IItians would have never been taught, or have understood and experienced the pleasures of “sine die” that IT BHU was infamous for. In those days, BHU along with JNU, AMU and others were the breeding ground for the youthful ministers of tomorrow. Consequently, the professional Medical and Engineering institutes had to toe the line, as far as academic sessions were concerned. That’s when I learnt that a sine die meant an indefinite closure of the University till further notice. I guess it’s for this reason that we see our ministers, well trained in sine die management, practice it with such aplomb in our Parliament, all the time.

I think we had 3 sine dies during my 5 years at BHU (fortunately with no delay in the overall graduation tenure). It conjures up images of excitement of an unplanned vacation and a surprise trip home. Since the sine die would have occurred usually due to some political violence, there would be announcements made by the police to vacate our hostels within 24 hours. We would pack up quickly, stuffing a few books of "Mass Transfer by Treyball" or "Unit Processes by Shreve" – ostensibly to study during the break, which needless to say, never happened.

Whether I would head south-east to Cuttack or south-west to Belgaum, depended on where my parents would be at that point of time.

South East meant that my journey planning had to be done with 2 of my best friends: Jha – O – Jha. One was Bipin Jha, a dashing debonair, entrepreneur, a gym fanatic, with a cleft on his chin, which made the girls in the university swoon. The other was Santosh Ojha, a romantic, a well read intellectual, with an intensity  (made up for his lack of ramboisque physique)  that drew the engineering girls (not that there were many!) like a magnet. I really do not recall how I befriended them; I was from a sleepy town in south India, while both of them were from the heartland of masochism – Bihar! 

What I did not have, I learnt from them. For example, that to stand patiently in a queue is a principle meant for wimps! That only we had the exclusive right in Varanasi to watch the movies in the late night show – going just a few minutes before the start, we (led by Bipin, of course) would nonchalantly walk up to the head of the queue and a few minutes later return triumphantly with the tickets, with the best seats to watch the romance (growing in real life, during that period) of Amitabh and Rekha.

This kind of training held good stead when we had to undertake our train journeys after the sine die was announced. Since we only had a 24 hour notice, there was no way that we could get reservations on the train. But that was not a cause for worry. We would arrive at the station, with our dangling hand bags and cigarettes. We could have cups of tea in the earthen “kulhad”, till such time the train arrived. No need of checking our reservation, since we did not have any. The coach that stopped in front of the tea stall was meant for us. Boisterously, we would board the coach and walk across the 7 cubicles to decide where to settle down. Santosh would look for some quiet space in the fully occupied coach, while Bipin’s interest would be to locate a space with a pretty girl. We would finally decide on one of the 72 berths (meeting both their requirements). With utmost courtesy, we would demand that a passenger share his reserved seat with us! The train would start and sitting on the edge, we would light up our cigarettes, now that we had “confirmed reservations”. Now, at this stage of my life, when I look back, I guess we would have really terrorized those families travelling, with our belligerent behaviour.

After having cups of tea and samosas, night would settle. Passengers would get ready to retire for the night. The middle berths would be put up – which meant that the seating arrangement would not be available. I guess that we had enough gentility not to take over the berths, but at the same time continued to be a nuisance. We would sit at the edge of the bottom berth, near the passenger’s foot, and doze in a sitting position, with our back slouched all night long. Since this was uncomfortable, in subsequent journeys, we carried newspapers with us. These were spread out on the floor, between the berths in the cubicle, and with the suitcase as the pillow, we would get a decent night’s sleep, with the blue night lamp glowing. (When I shared this with my wife, she was aghast and wanted to divorce me, until I promised her that I will never repeat it again!). 

My journeys to the south-west were an entirely different cup of tea. I belonged to a lovely gang of 10 friends (will write about them later), in the chemical engineering department. Going to Belgaum required me to go through Bombay (as it was called then, and I prefer to call it that way, instead of Mumbai). Of the 10, my best pals were Rakesh and Mannu – both of them real suave, “chikna”, Gujjus!. And they were a total contrast from my two Bihari friends. They were an epitome of perfect etiquettes, chivalry, eloquence, and benevolence ... all the stuff we hear that a girl desires in her boyfriend. But I find it hard to explain, that in spite of these great virtues, I do not recall if they ever managed to have a romantic phase in their lives at BHU!!

The journey to Bombay would be very different. We would do the scouting of the 72 berths across the 7 reserved coaches. Only and if only we found a vacant seat, after politely requesting the co passenger, would we gratefully occupy it. No coercion and no belligerent behaviour. Those of us, who could not find a seat, would happily sit on the doorway of the train. During the long journey, we would take turns in getting some sleep, when any berths got vacant. If no berth was available, it meant sitting on our suitcases, next to the toilets and managing to get some broken sleep.

The last stage of my journey would need me to travel alone from Bombay to Belgaum. One can see the transformation in societal discipline, as we keep travelling to south India. There is absolutely no chance of entering a reserved coach. The TTE will not permit you to even sit in the vestibule and it would be most likely that he would eject you in the next stop. So alone and forlorn, late in the night, I board the unreserved, general class compartment for the 12 hour journey. I manage to push myself in – there are already 144 passengers in the coach which has a capacity of 72. I am lucky, if I have enough space to move my hand to rub my cheek, where the fat insolent mosquito has bitten me. I learn to doze in a standing position – with no fear of falling, since I am well supported by my fellow Indians on all sides. A few hours later, with a few passengers alighting, I receive a promotion, I now have enough space to sit on my suitcase and that seems like heaven. I am thrilled that I will be reaching home soon in the morning.

I take an auto rickshaw and reach home all disheveled, exhausted and stinking, since I have not had a bath for over 2 days.  But the happiness and surprise on my parent’s faces makes the exhaustion a thing of the past. I freshen up for some lovely breakfast my mom has quickly prepared and relax in the comfort of home ....sine die!!

The journeys were tough, but I always enjoyed myself and never complained.

Maybe it was the exuberance of youth. Maybe it was the company of great friends that made one oblivious to the discomforts. Maybe my body was strong enough to withstand these difficulties. Maybe it was the new freedom I was experiencing at that stage of my life

... Maybe I had not yet learnt the Art of Being Unhappy....

(.... To be continued .....)

Learning the Art of being Unhappy – Part 1

Sometime in the early 1970s.... it is summer vacation time. We had moved a few years back to a place called Belgaum in  the state of Karnataka (mistaken to be Belgium, by some of our relatives!). During this period, we would make the annual trip to our hometown in Orissa. There would have been detailed planning, months earlier, to ensure that the reservations and connecting trains were all confirmed.

As kids, we would all be excited looking forward to this vacation trip. The bags would be packed along with food and rations to last the 3 day journey. A largish, hard plastic water canister, with a small metal spout at the bottom, was a critical piece and I felt mighty important to be given responsibility of its safe keeping. A purple bedding roll had to be carried – it comprised of 2 pillows at the ends, thin mattress / quilts and bed sheets, rolled up and buckled. This had to be carried, since in those days, the berths in the trains were made of wooden planks only (except first class). 

We would go to the station, at least an hour before its scheduled time, although it was certain that the arrival of the train was uncertain. Dad would comment that he hoped that the train would be allotted platform number one, so that we would not be required to walk across the long over bridge and climb the never ending steps.  On reaching the station, we would be accosted by a gang of registered porters, who looked radiant in their bright red shirts. There would be a few minutes of hard bargaining on the charge to carry the baggage to the platform. Finally, there would be an agreement (have realized through my later situations in life, that any and all negotiations always ends up with a mutual satisfactory agreement!).  For sure, Dad’s hopes would not have materialized and the porter would announce that our train would arrive on the last platform! He would then roll a piece of cloth on his head and pick up the first suitcase and place it on his head. The next two would be hoisted over the first one by us, without him showing any signs of discomfort. He would then urge us to hand him another bag which he would sling on his left shoulder. As if to make us realize that his charges are justified, he would pick up another bag with his right hand and commence his brisk walk to the platform. Dad and I would walk alongside him, to ensure that he does not disappear with our luggage! (A fear so unwarranted, but exists, even today, in almost every traveler's mind!). The porter would reach a spot on the platform, where he expected our designated coach to arrive. The baggage would be lowered on the floor and arranged neatly, creating a space for the family.

Mom and sis would perch themselves on the suitcases after ascertaining the bag is strong enough and nothing inside would get crushed. And then the interminable wait would start. We would watch trains arrive on other platforms and other travelers get in joyfully to start their journey. The cacophony of the station would be interspersed with shriek, incoherent announcements of the status of other arrivals and departures. There would be a constant stream of old ladies and small children in ragged dresses approaching us, seeking alms. Notwithstanding their apparent need, I have it grilled into my mind during those early days to never encourage this – as giving alms to one would ensure that you become the most popular altruist in the station. Soon we hear a bell – this confirms that our train has just left the previous station and we are thrilled. It would reach in the next 30 minutes or so. All heads are turned towards the horizon where the train is expected to arrive. Dad warns that the train has a scheduled stop of 7 minutes only, and we must quickly board the train. He is tense. There are a couple of false calls, whereby it happens to be a goods train rumbling across or another one surprisingly diverting itself into another platform, at the last moment.  Mom makes sure that all of us are safely away from the platform’s edge. The train chugs in. The confident porter’s prediction has been wrong, the compartment is further away. He picks up our baggage and all of us rush behind him. There is a scramble at the door but we manage to push ourselves in. After finding our seats, a count is taken of the baggage, to ensure that nothing has been lost. The porter is paid off – the cunning fellow has no change to return, and he pockets the balance, knowing very well that our priority now is to settle down and start our journey. Dad is pleased that the first stage of the umpteen journeys he has taken has started off well. We still have a few long minutes to spare, before the train starts pulling out of the station – and it has been always this way - unnecessary anxiety.

We have one window seat allotted between the four of us. I quickly glide myself there, much to my elder sister’s annoyance. Her glares do not deter me and I gloat over my newly acquired kingdom, watching the dusk approach. Dad takes care of the security and ensures that all the baggage are chained and locked to the seat stands below. Mom opens the bedding to make the family comfortable. Soon it is night, and all passengers open up their packages to have dinner. The entire compartment is filled with the aroma of diverse Indian cuisines. After having some delicious “puri – aloo” followed by a dry sweet, all retire to bed, with a thrill that the vacation has actually begun.

The next day passes off well, reading “Amar Chitra Katha” and Tarzan comics that I have carried and having intermittent fights with my sis, whenever I am bored. I have the South Eastern railways, timetable with me and I keep announcing where and when the next stop is going to be. When the halt is reasonably long enough, Dad makes a foray to fill up the water cistern from the stained, white mosaic drinking taps on the platform. I can see much anxiety on Mom’s face till he returns back safely. There is no catering service in the train, so when at times he is able to pick up some “vadas / idlis” with the watery chutney, it is devoured with utter pleasure. The soot of the coal from the steam engine (there were no diesel / electric engine trains then), gradually coats us – a wash at the small sink at the end of the aisle, freshen us, but it is not long before our face and hands are black again. We have to alight at Vijayawada to change trains, sometime late in the night. We are put to bed early, since we may not get much sleep later. The train is running two hours late, Dad is worried that we may miss the connecting train, if it gets late any further.

We reach Vijayawada at 2.00 am. An hour earlier, we have been woken up and the bedding is rolled up and everything repacked. Bleary eyed, we follow our parents to the “waiting room”. There are people all over the place – some of them sleeping blissfully on the floor with a plain bed sheet, some on a chair with their legs perched up, the lucky ones having the space to stretch their legs on a bench. We freshen ourselves us, and Mom dabs some powder talc on us, I guess, to camouflage some of the remnant soot. In the absence of computerised booking system, our reservation on this train would be certain only an hour before its schedule. Dad goes and checks up the reservation chart, and comes back happy that 2 of the 4 seats have been confirmed. We will manage amongst us. We board the train at 5.00 am, the negotiation with the porter repeating only this time it is in Telugu, and more exorbitant, considering that we are strangers in this place. 

The journey to Cuttack, our destination, where our grandparents live takes us almost another day. We reach past midnight. We have managed with two berths during the last twenty hours. Tired and exhausted, we are elated that we have finally reached. I have no more strength or inclination to irritate my sis. We find 2 cycle rickshaws which will take us home. Barking dogs greet us in the stillness of the night. My grandparents are awake to welcome us back after a year. Mom gets into a mode of ensuring that we are presentable and shoos us to go for a bath, with cold water. Black soot makes rivulets on the red flooring of the ancestral bathroom. A fresh set of clothes. The arduous journey lasting over two days is over. We have a month to spend, before we make a similar trip, only this time in the reverse direction. And many such journeys, over the years to come.

But I always enjoyed myself and never complained.

Maybe I was too young to understand the stress. Maybe I had the energy of a child and did not let the obstacles and discomfort bother me. Maybe my parents ensured that all my needs were taken care off. Maybe irritating my sis was an energising distraction. 

... Maybe I had not yet learnt the Art of Being Unhappy....

(.... To be continued .....)