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 .....)