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- Herausgeber: Pencil
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
‘The first time I saw a train, I was standing on a wooded slope outside a tunnel, not far from Kalka. Suddenly, with a shrill whistle and great burst of steam, a green and black engine came snorting out of the blackness... “A dragon!” I shouted. “There’s a dragon coming out of its cave!”’ The charm of travelling by a train as it speeds its way out of a tunnel or a jungle and passes through nondescript villages and towns is unmatched. There also exists a joyful curiosity in unfolding the mysterious lives and destinations of its passengers. Abeer Javid has been writing books about the hinterland for 2 years, but this is the first time his stories revolving around trains and railway stations of small-town India have been brought together in a single collection. Classics such as ‘The Eyes Have
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THESPECIALTRAINJOURNEY
BY
ABEERBINJAVID
DISCLAIMER:Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,eventsandincidentsaretheproductsoftheauthor'simagination.TheopinionsexpressedinthisbookdonotseektoreflecttheviewsofthePublisher.
Authorbiography
Contents
COPYRIGHT©ABEERBINJAVID2021
1
CONTENTS
THESPECIALTRAINJOURNEY
THEEYESHAVEIT
DRAGONINTHETUNNEL
BELTINGAROUNDMUMBAI
GOINGHOME
THELONGDAY
THETIGERINTHETUNNEL
THEWOMANONPLATFORMNO.8
SNAKETROUBLE
THENIGHTTRAINATDEOLI
TIMESTOPSATSHAMLI
THETUNNEL
KIPLING’SSIMLA
Introduction
‘What
is
this
life
if,
full
of
care,
We
have
no
time
to
stand
and
stare.
No
time
to
stand
beneath
the
boughs
And
stare
as
long
as
sheep
or
cows.
No
time
to
see,
when
woods
we
pass,
Where
squirrels
hide
their
nuts
in
grass…’
William
Henry
Davies
wrote
these
lines
in
1911,
and
they
ring
true
even
over
a
century
later.
It
is
the
truth;
we
really
don’t
have
the
time
to
stand
and
stare.
I
always
think
of
this
when
I
don’t
have
the
luxury
of
time
and
am
told
to
travel
by
airplanes,
usually
for
book
fairs
and
literature
festivals.
I
wish
I
could
take
the
train
to
every
destination
I
travel
to.
There
would
be
so
much
more
to
see,
and
many
more
stories
to
tell.
The
first
time
I
saw
a
train,
I
was
standing
on
a
wooded
slope
outside
a
tunnel,
not
far
from
Kalka.
Suddenly,
with
a
shrill
whistle
and
great
burst
of
steam,
a
green
and
black
engine
came
snorting
out
of
the
blackness.
I
had
turned
and
run
towards
my
father.
‘A
dragon!’
I
had
shouted.
‘There’s
a
dragon
coming
out
of
its
cave!
’
There
is
something
about
passing
trains
that
fills
me
with
awe
and
excitement.
All
those
passengers,
with
mysterious
lives
and
mysterious
destinations,
are
people
I
want
to
know,
people
whose
mysteries
I
want
to
unfold.
There
is
no
joy
like
sitting
in
a
train
as
it
comes
out
of
tunnels
and
jungles
and
passes
through
fields
and
villages—when
small
children
shout
and
wave
at
you
and
you
simply
wave
back
to
them.
In
this
collection,
I
have
put
together
fourteen
of
my
short
stories
that
in
some
way
or
the
other
revolve
around
the
trains
and
railway
stations
of
small-town
India.
And
I
leave
you
to
read
these,
with
the
promise
that
they
will
take
you
back
to
a
time
when
life
was
not
so
full
of
care
and
there
was
time
to
stand
and
stare.
But
not
for
too
long,
or
the
train
would
leave
without
you!
COPYRIGHT©ABEERBINJAVID2021
1
CONTENTS
The
Great
Train
Journey
The
Eyes
Have
It
Dragon
in
the
Tunnel
Belting
Around
Mumbai
Going
Home
The
Long
Day
The
Tiger
in
the
Tunnel
The
Woman
on
Platform
No.
8
Snake
Trouble
The
Night
Train
at
Deoli
Time
Stops
at
Shamli
The
Tunnel
Kipling’s
Simla
THESPECIALTRAINJOURNEY
S
uraj
waved
to
a
passing
train,
and
kept
waving
until
only
the
spiralling
smoke
remained.
He
liked
waving
to
trains.
He
wondered
about
the
people
in
them,
and
about
where
they
were
going
and
what
it
would
be
like
there.
And
when
the
train
had
passed,
leaving
behind
only
the
hot,
empty
track,
Suraj
was
lonely.
He
was
a
little
lonely
now.
His
hands
in
his
pockets,
he
wandered
along
the
railway
track,
kicking
at
loose
pebbles
and
sending
them
down
the
bank.
Soon
there
were
other
tracks,
a
railway-siding,
a
stationary
goods
train.
Suraj
walked
the
length
of
the
goods
train.
The
carriage
doors
were
closed
and,
as
there
were
no
windows,
he
couldn’t
see
inside.
He
looked
around
to
see
if
he
was
observed,
and
then,
satisfied
that
he
was
alone,
began
trying
the
doors.
He
was
almost
at
the
end
of
the
train
when
a
carriage
door
gave
way
to
his
thrust.
It
was
dark
inside
the
carriage.
Suraj
stood
outside
in
the
bright
sunlight,
peering
into
the
darkness,
trying
to
recognize
bulky,
shapeless
objects.
He
stepped
into
the
carriage
and
felt
around.
The
objects
were
crates,
and
through
the
cross-section
of
woodwork
he
felt
straw.
He
opened
the
other
door
and
the
sun
streamed
into
the
compartment,
driving
out
the
musty
darkness.
Suraj
sat
down
on
a
packing-case,
his
chin
cupped
in
his
hands.
The
school
was
closed
for
the
summer
holidays,
and
he
had
been
wandering
about
all
day
and
still
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
himself.
The
carriage
was
bare
of
any
sort
of
glamour.
Passing
trains
fascinated
him—moving
trains,
crowded
trains,
shrieking,
panting
trains
all
fascinated
him—but
this
smelly,
dark
compartment
filled
him
only
with
gloom
and
more
loneliness.
He
did
not
really
look
gloomy
or
lonely.
He
looked
fierce
at
times,
when
he
glared
out
at
people
from
under
his
dark
eyebrows,
but
otherwise
he
usually
wore
a
contented
look—and
no
one
could
guess
just
how
deep
his
thoughts
were!
Perhaps,
if
he
had
company,
some
fun
could
be
had
in
the
carriage.
If
there
had
been
a
friend
with
him,
someone
like
Ranji…
He
looked
at
the
crates.
He
was
always
curious
about
things
that
were
bolted
or
nailed
down
or
in
some
way
concealed
from
him—
things
like
parcels
and
locked
rooms—and
carriage
doors
and
crates! He
went
from
one
crate
to
another,
and
soon
his
perseverance
was
rewarded.
The
cover
of
one
hadn’t
been
properly
nailed
down.
Suraj
got
his
fingers
under
the
edge
and
prised
up
the
lid.
Absorbed
in
this
operation,
he
did
not
notice
the
slight
shudder
that
passed
through
the
train.
He
plunged
his
hands
into
the
straw
and
pulled
out
an
apple.
It
was
a
dark,
ruby-red
apple,
and
it
lay
in
the
dusty
palm
of
Suraj’s
hand
like
some
gigantic
precious
stone,
smooth
and
round
and
glowing
in
the
sunlight.
Suraj
looked
up,
out
of
the
doorway,
and
thought
he
saw
a
tree
walking
past
the
train
.
He
dropped
the
apple
and
stared.
There
was
another
tree,
and
another,
all
walking
past
the
door
with
increasing
rapidity.
Suraj
stepped
forward
but
lost
his
balance
and
fell
on
his
hands
and
knees.
The
floor
beneath
him
was
vibrating,
the
wheels
were
clattering
on
the
rails,
the
carriage
was
swaying.
The
trees
were
running
now,
swooping
past
the
train,
and
the
telegraph
poles
joined
them
in
the
crazy
race.
Crouching
on
his
hands
and
knees,
Suraj
stared
out
of
the
open
door
and
realized
that
the
train
was
moving,
moving
fast,
moving
away
from
his
home
and
puffing
into
the
unknown.
He
crept
cautiously
to
the
door
and
looked
out.
The
ground
seemed
to
rush
away
from
the
wheels.
He
couldn’t
jump.
Was
there,
he
wondered,any
way
of
stopping
the
train?
He
looked
around
the
compartment
again:
only
crates
of
apples.
He
wouldn’t
starve,
that
was
one
consolation. He
picked
up
the
apple
he
had
dropped
and
pulled
a
crate
nearer
to
the
doorway.
Sitting
down,
he
took
a
bite
from
the
apple
and
stared
out
of
the
open
door.
‘Greetings,
friend,’
said
a
voice
from
behind,
and
Suraj
spun
round
guiltily,
his
mouth
full
of
apple.
A
dirty,
bearded
face
was
looking
out
at
him
from
behind
a
pile
of
crates.
The
mouth
was
open
in
a
wide,
paan-stained
grin.
‘Er—namaste,’
said
Suraj
apprehensively.
‘Who
are
you?’
The
man
stepped
out
from
behind
the
crates
and
confronted
the
boy. ‘I’ll
have
one
of
those,
too,’
he
said,
pointing
to
the
apple.
Suraj
gave
the
man
an
apple,
and
stood
his
ground
while
the
carriage
rocked
on
the
rails.
The
man
took
a
step
forward,
lost
his
balance,
and
sat
down
on
the
floor.
‘And
where
are
you
going,
friend?’
he
asked.
‘Have
you
a
ticket?
’ ‘No,’
said
Suraj.
‘Have
you?’
The
man
pulled
at
his
beard
and
mused
upon
the
question
but
did
not
answer
it.
He
took
a
bite
from
the
apple
and
said,
‘No,
I
don’t
have
a
ticket.
But
I
usually
reserve
this
compartment
for
myself.
This
is
the
first
time
I’ve
had
company.
Where
are
you
going?
Are
you
a
hippy
like
me?’
‘I
don’t
know,’
said
Suraj.
‘Where
does
this
train
go?’
The
scruffy
ticketless
traveller
looked
concerned
for
a
moment,
then
smiled
and
said,
‘Where
do
you
want
to
go?’
‘I
want
to
go
everywhere,’
said
Suraj.
‘I
want
to
go
to
England
and
China
and
Africa
and
Greenland.
I
want
to
go
all
over
the
world!’
‘Then
you’re
on
the
right
train,’
said
the
man.
‘This
train
goes
everywhere.
First
it
will
take
you
to
the
sea,
and
there
you
will
have
to
get
on
a
ship
if
you
want
to
go
to
China.’
‘How
do
I
get
on
a
ship?’
asked
Suraj.
The
man,
who
had
been
fumbling
about
in
the
folds
and
pockets
of
his
shabby
clothes,
produced
a
packet
of
bidis
and
a
box
of
matches,
and
began
smoking
the
aromatic
leaf.‘Can
you
cook?’
he
asked.
‘Yes,’
said
Suraj
untruthfully.
‘Can
you
scrub
a
deck?’
‘Why
not?’
‘Can
you
sail
a
ship?’
‘I
can
sail
anything.’
‘Then
you’ll
get
to
China,’
said
the
man.
He
leant
back
against
a
crate,
stuck
his
dirty
feet
up
on
another
crate,
and
puffed
contentedly
at
his
bidi.
Suraj
finished
his
apple,
took
another
from
the
crate,
and
dug
his
teeth
into
it.
He
took
aim
with
the
core
of
the
old
apple
and
tried
to
hit
a
telegraph
pole,
but
missed
it
by
metres;
it
wasn’t
the
same
as
throwing
a
cricket
ball.
Then,
to
make
the
apple
more
interesting,
he
began
to
take
big
bites
to
see
if
he
could
devour
it
in
three
mouthfuls.
But
it
took
him
four
bites
to
finish
the
apple,
so
he
started
on
another.
Suraj
had
always
wanted
to
be
in
a
train,
a
train
that
would
take
him
to
strange
new
places,
over
hundreds
and
hundreds
of
kilometres.
And
here
was
a
train
doing
just
that,
and
he
wasn’t
quite
sure
if
it
was
what
he
really
wanted…
The
train
was
coming
to
a
station.
The
engine
whistled,
slowed
down.
The
number
of
railway
lines
increased,
crossed,
spread
out
in
different
directions.
Before
the
train
could
come
to
a
stop,
Suraj’s
companion
came
to
the
door
and
jumped
to
the
ground.
‘You’d
better
keep
out
of
sight
if
you
don’t
want
to
be
caught!’
he
called.
And
waving
his
hand,
he
disappeared
into
the
jungle
across
the
railway
tracks.
The
train
was
at
a
siding.
Suraj
couldn’t
see
any
signs
of
life,
but
he
heard
voices
and
the
sound
of
carriage
doors
being
opened
and
closed.
He
suspected
that
the
apples
wouldn’t
stay
in
the
compartment
much
longer,
so
he
stuffed
one
into
each
pocket,
and
climbed
on
to
a
wooden
rack
in
a
corner.
Presently
men’s
voices
were
heard
in
the
doorway.
Two
labourers
stepped
into
the
compartment
and
began
moving
the
crates
towards
the
door,
where
they
were
taken
over
by
others.
Soon
the
compartment
was
empty.
Suraj
waited
until
the
men
had
gone
away
before
coming
down
from
the
rack.
After
about
five
minutes
the
train
started
again.
Itshunted
up
and
down,
then
gathered
speed
and
went
rushing
across
the
plain.
Suraj
felt
a
thrill
of
anticipation.
Where
would
they
be
going
now?
He
wondered
what
his
parents
would
do
when
he
failed
to
come
home
that
night;
they
would
think
he
had
run
away,
or
been
kidnapped,
or
been
involved
in
an
accident.
They
would
have
the
police
out
and
there
would
be
search
parties.
Suraj
would
be
famous:
the
boy
who
disappeared!
The
train
came
out
of
the
jungle
and
passed
fields
of
sugarcane
and
villages
of
mud
huts.
Children
shouted
and
waved
to
the
train,
though
there
was
no
one
in
it
except
Suraj,
the
guard
and
the
engine-driver.
Suraj
waved
back.
Usually
he
was
in
a
field,
waving;
today,
he
was
actually
on
the
train.
He
was
beginning
to
enjoy
the
ride.
The
train
would
take
him
to
the
sea.
There
would
be
ships
with
funnels
and
ships
with
sails,
and
there
might
even
be
one
to
take
him
across
the
ocean
to
some
distant
land.
He
felt
a
bit
sorry
for
his
mother
and
father—they
would
miss
him…they
would
believe
he
had
been
lost
for
ever…!
But
one
day,
a
fortune
made,
he
would
return
home
and
then
nobody
would
care
any
more
about
school
reports
and
what
he
ate
and
why
he
came
home
late…Ranji
would
be
waiting
for
him
at
the
station,
and
Suraj
would
bring
him
back
a
present—an
African
lion,
perhaps,
or
a
transistor-radio…
But
he
wished
Ranji
was
with
him
now;
he
wished
the
ragged
hippy
was
still
with
him.
An
adventure
was
always
more
fun
when
one
had
company.
He
had
finished
both
apples
by
the
time
the
train
showed
signs
of
reaching
another
station.
This
time
it
seemed
to
be
moving
into
the
station
itself,
not
just
a
siding.
It
passed
a
lot
of
signals
and
buildings
and
advertisement-boards
before
slowing
to
a
halt
beside
a
wide,
familiar
platform.
Suraj
looked
out
of
the
door
and
caught
sight
of
the
board
bearing
the
station’s
name.
He
was
so
astonished
that
he
almost
fell
out
of
the
compartment.
He
was
back
in
his
hometown!
After
travelling
forty
or
fifty
kilometres,
here
he
was,
home
again
.
He
couldn’t
understand
it.
The
train
hadn’t
turned,
of
that
he
was
certain;
and
it
hadn’t
been
moving
backwards,
he
was
certain
of
that,
too.
He
climbed
out
of
the
compartment
and
looked
up
and
down
theplatform.
Yes,
the
engine
had
changed
ends!
It
was
only
the
local
apple
train.
Suraj
glowered
angrily
at
everyone
on
the
platform.
It
was
as
though
the
rest
of
the
world
had
played
a
trick
on
him.
He
made
his
way
to
the
waiting-room
and
slipped
into
the
street
through
the
back-door.
He
did
not
want
a
ticket-collector
asking
him
awkward
questions.
It
had
been
a
free
ride,
and
with
that
he
comforted
himself.
Shrugging
his
shoulders,
Suraj
sauntered
down
the
road
to
the
bazaar.
Some
day,
he
thought,
he’d
take
a
train
and
really
go
somewhere;
and
he’d
buy
a
ticket,
just
to
make
sure
of
getting
there.
‘I’m
going
everywhere,’
he
said
fiercely.
‘I’m
going
everywhere,
and
no
one
can
stop
me!’
THEEYESHAVEIT
I
had
the
train
compartment
to
myself
up
to
Rohana,
then
a
girl
got
in.
The
couple
who
saw
her
off
were
probably
her
parents.
They
seemed
very
anxious
about
her
comfort
and
the
woman
gave
the
girl
detailed
instructions
as
to
where
to
keep
her
things,
when
not
to
lean
out
of
windows,
and
how
to
avoid
speaking
to
strangers.
They
called
their
goodbyes
and
the
train
pulled
out
of
the
station.
As
I
was
totally
blind
at
the
time,
my
eyes
sensitive
only
to
light
and
darkness,
I
was
unable
to
tell
what
the
girl
looked
like.
But
I
knew
she
wore
slippers
from
the
way
they
slapped
against
her
heels.
It
would
take
me
some
time
to
discover
something
about
her
looks
and
perhaps
I
never
would.
But
I
liked
the
sound
of
her
voice
and
even
the
sound
of
her
slippers.
‘Are
you
going
all
the
way
to
Dehra?’
I
asked.
I
must
have
been
sitting
in
a
dark
corner
because
my
voice
startled
her.
She
gave
a
little
exclamation
and
said,
‘I
didn’t
know
anyone
else
was
here.’
Well,
it
often
happens
that
people
with
good
eyesight
fail
to
see
what
is
right
in
front
of
them.
They
have
too
much
to
take
in,
I
suppose.
Whereas
people
who
cannot
see
(or
see
very
little)
have
to
take
in
only
the
essentials,
whatever
registers
tellingly
on
their
remaining
senses.
‘I
didn’t
see
you
either,’
I
said.
‘But
I
heard
you
come
in.’I
wondered
if
I
would
be
able
to
prevent
her
from
discovering
that
I
was
blind.
Provided
I
keep
to
my
seat,
I
thought,
it
shouldn’t
be
too
difficult. The
girl
said,
‘I’m
getting
off
at
Saharanpur.
My
aunt
is
meeting
me
there.’
‘Then
I
had
better
not
get
too
familiar,’
I
replied.
‘Aunts
are
usually
formidable
creatures.’
‘Where
are
you
going?’
she
asked.
‘To
Dehra
and
then
to
Mussoorie.’
‘Oh,
how
lucky
you
are.
I
wish
I
were
going
to
Mussoorie.
I
love
the
hills.
Especially
in
October.’
‘Yes,
this
is
the
best
time,’
I
said,
calling
on
my
memories.
‘The
hills
are
covered
with
wild
dahlias,
the
sun
is
delicious,
and
at
night
you
can
sit
in
front
of
a
log
fire
and
drink
a
little
brandy.
Most
of
the
tourists
have
gone
and
the
roads
are
quiet
and
almost
deserted.
Yes,
October
is
the
best
time.’
She
was
silent.
I
wondered
if
my
words
had
touched
her
or
whether
she
thought
me
a
romantic
fool.
Then
I
made
a
mistake.
‘What
is
it
like
outside?’
I
asked.
She
seemed
to
find
nothing
strange
in
the
question.
Had
she
noticed
already
that
I
could
not
see?
But
her
next
question
removed
my
doubts.
‘Why
don’t
you
look
out
of
the
window?’
she
asked.
I
moved
easily
along
the
berth
and
felt
for
the
window
ledge.
The
window
was
open
and
I
faced
it,
making
a
pretence
of
studying
the
landscape.
I
heard
the
panting
of
the
engine,
the
rumble
of
the
wheels,
and,
in
my
mind’s
eye
I
could
see
telegraph
posts
flashing
by. ‘Have
you
noticed,’
I
ventured,
‘that
the
trees
seem
to
be
moving
while
we
seem
to
be
standing
still?’
‘That
always
happens,’
she
said.
‘Do
you
see
any
animals?’
‘No,’
I
answered
quite
confidently.
I
knew
that
there
were
hardly
any
animals
left
in
the
forests
near
Dehra.
I
turned
from
the
window
and
faced
the
girl
and
for
a
while
we
sat
in
silence.
‘You
have
an
interesting
face,’
I
remarked.
I
was
becoming
quite
daring
but
it
was
a
safe
remark.
Few
girls
can
resist
flattery.
Shelaughed
pleasantly—a
clear,
ringing
laugh.
‘It’s
nice
to
be
told
I
have
an
interesting
face.
I’m
tired
of
people
telling
me
I
have
a
pretty
face.’
Oh,
so
you
do
have
a
pretty
face,
thought
I.
And
aloud
I
said:
‘Well,
an
interesting
face
can
also
be
pretty.’
‘You
are
a
very
gallant
young
man,’
she
said.
‘But
why
are
you
so
serious?’ I
thought,
then,
that
I
would
try
to
laugh
for
her,
but
the
thought
of
laughter
only
made
me
feel
troubled
and
lonely.
‘We’ll
soon
be
at
your
station,’
I
said.
‘Thank
goodness
it’s
a
short
journey.
I
can’t
bear
to
sit
in
a
train
for
more
than
two
or
three
hours.’
Yet
I
was
prepared
to
sit
there
for
almost
any
length
of
time,
just
to
listen
to
her
talking.
Her
voice
had
the
sparkle
of
a
mountain
stream.
As
soon
as
she
left
the
train
she
would
forget
our
brief
encounter.
But
it
would
stay
with
me
for
the
rest
of
the
journey
and
for
some
time
after.
The
engine’s
whistle
