Train | Ramu Das

Rainfall in Mumbai is always late. Once, however, it starts raining here, the downpour is massive and incessant, so much so that most of the activities of the city comes to a standstill. Mumbaikers are used to such show of the weather, and we accept what we can’t change.

The moment I got in the train and sat down by the window seat (which when vacant I greedily capture), waiting for the train to move, it started raining. In a few seconds, the water gushed forth from the roof of the train station. With displeasure I made a snap decision and rose from the seat and began moving to the other side of the seat where the rain water could not touch me, could do me no harm. I almost sat on the other side of the seat when I saw what a person – who sat opposite the window seat where I was sitting – was trying to do, and changed my mind instead. I realized my mistake.

The man was trying to pull the windowpane down, and he was having some trouble doing it because he was a feeble man and the window, rarely being lubricated or pulled down, was jammed. I lent him a helping hand and together we pulled the pane down, thus saving our good selves and the seats from getting watered. The drops were heavy; one could distinctly make out the thud-thud-thud sound that the falling rain drops made.

This is but a minor experience I am narrating, but then, I do believe, major things start from minor things; there are many other instances (minor and major) where we can do it. The choice is always yours. You can either do it or you can, like many others, back off.

P.S.: It seems like the lifeline of Mumbai (the trains) have now taken the form of ships; be it by water or land or air, we will continue going to office nevertheless. While some of the vehicles are freely and naturally washed, some of them are washed away. Would you care to join us in the largest theme park ever? It’s free! It’s free!

Imagine this picture: two boys in the compartment of a train, one older and taller than the other, both skeleton-like, two bowls in small hands, no shirts on, torn half-pants, broom attached on a thread in the waist which (that is, the broom) they use for swiping the floor of the train. They are begging for money and food. Look at their eyes and you will see no glint of hope in them, not for survival. Yet they are living… with no hope.

At the most he could be six years old, and his brother, whom he carried clasping in his arms, could not be more than three years. Their very sight evoked pity, but many a man and woman, rich and handsome and beautiful, upon casting the first glance at the two boys, turned their eyes and heads in disgust. “Oh, poor creatures,” a woman sighed but not so much as part with a rupee. “Come, come,” her husband called her, “come and sit in the seat when it is empty and leave the poor creatures to their fate.”

What one could not see, however, was the love the older brother shared for his younger one. What obligation had the older one to carry the younger one and look after? He was the older brother, of course, and he knew he was responsible for his younger brother, he knew he had a moral duty here. Is it not wonderful how a six-year-old boy could so well understand his responsibility, while his parents, whoever they maybe, living or dead, have abandoned, even society, that crazy breed, seems merciless.

No doubt, a few good Samaritans are doing whatever they can to help such unfortunate children live good/better lives, but the larger proportion of the society is fine with the tag “human being” and not “being human”.

A Thinking Man