An evening at the railway station. Does not sound as romantic as an evening at the beach. But a recent conversation brought a train of thoughts that seemed to say they were one and the same.
Recently, while carrying out a short procedure under local anaesthesia on a patient, I was chatting with the patient to make sure things were going fine. Vocal and local anesthesia, we call it. Well, the patient happened to be from Shoranur, almost 300 km from where I practise. And suddenly we were talking of the vegetarian refreshment stall on the really wide Platform 2 where real yummy and crispy uzhunnu vadas and chutney could be had. Of the Higginbothams stall and the ‘May I Help You’ counter.
And soon the train of thought brought in long-forgotten but wonderful memories of journeys undertaken long ago, of time spent waiting at the station for connecting trains, of walking the length of the station whiling away time, of buying The Hindu and trying to adjust to the layout (for somebody who was then coming from Bombay and used to an upcountry newspaper). The patient had his short procedure and went home. I had meanwhile travelled back through 40-odd years in that half an hour.
People romanticise rail journeys. There are many classic trains also. But the railway station? I have spent many hours at the beach. During my years in Chennai, many evenings were spent at the Marina seeing the sea and watching the world go by. But in the land-locked area in Kerala where I live now, the beach is a chaotic three-hour drive away. But I find the railhead near my house is just like a beach.
The trick is not to wait on the main platforms where the trains keep coming and going. Take the less-used platform, get a comfy seat and watch the tide of the trains come in and ebb. A tide comes in foaming and whistling. There is the screaming of the children and the yelling by the adults. Get away from the water’s edge, the mother is screaming. Or is it to get away from the edge of the platform?
The people get out and soon the tide has ebbed, and the platform is empty. Till the next tide comes in with another set of people. The whole wide world is out there; one can be lonely but not alone. Or better still, to be alone even when one is not lonely. To be lost in another world, uncaring of the worries of the life that awaits us outside. Watching people hurry, we can try to get into their lives, imagining their lives. There the lovebirds, here the kids enjoying the groundnuts and juice, frolicking in the sands, what joyous lives they lead. Or there the man sitting alone every day, another lonely person like us, we imagine. Or there the happy family out for the evening. Looking happy, but only they know the storms brewing in their own lives.
And what of the sundry vendors and sellers. For them the beach and the station are no romantic getaways. It is the harsh reality of their life that allows them no time to stand and stare. Soon it is dark. The people have left the beach. The platforms too have started emptying. The tides still come in and go. Some trains still pass through the station. But now nobody to get in or out except for a few that we can count on our hands. Are they the real lost ones, no home or hearth to go back to?
The beach is fun. The railway station too. Metaphorically they are the same. But only if we can come back to our own homes and dear ones.
philip.umman@gmail.com
