DADAR TO KHANDALA
"Eh chaaywaala!
doh cup chaay dena!", the shout woke me up from my slumber. i had been trying to catch up with my sleep having woken up at 5 00 to catch the Shirdi passenger train.
As i rubbed my eyes and stretched my 5 feet 1 inch frame, i could see an arm stretched out through the window bars to hand over a 10 rupees note to the tea boy on platform and in return grab the paper cups, delicately balancing and retreiving them through the narrow gap in between the bars.
He handed me one of the cups.
Noticing my hesitation he laughed," All bacteria lay down their arms against this Kalyan chaay cup!, Gulp it down. You have been shivering since Dadar! "
Reluctantly and out of thirst too, I took the cup and sipped the adrak flavoured chai. The warmth of the tea soon soothed the irritation tickling the back of my throat.
As I finished my drink, I looked in amazement as my new aqaintance gave another 10 rupees note to the tea boy along with the crumpled tea cups.
"Is the chai not for 5 rupees each?", I asked.
"Yes, it is.
I have been journeying on this route for 6 months now, but he is the only one who collects our rubbish.
He doesn't like his cups thrown back on platform or the rail tracks.
We learn about civics through our books.
Yet, his civic sense is over and above all of us. Those extra 10 rupees were for topping in life's civics examination".
He sat with his legs uncrossed. His height must be over 6 feet as his knees were touching mine. A well ironed, pleated dark grey shorts, a spotless white cotton half shirt, which was buttoned to the top but not tucked in and an Australian cricketer style baggy green cap balanced on his left knee, completed his attire.
Though not exuberant with affluence, he gave an impression of content in his dressage.
His complexion was sallow, yet he did not appear anaemic. As his hands rested on his knees, I could see that they were used to hard labour through the callosities at the base of his fingers.
His jawline was firm and a small scar ran across his lower cheek towards the angle of his jaw. It must have been itchy, as he ever so often would scratch it.
"Adamson,
Oliver Adamson "., he stretched his hand out.
"Mannu Pobal " I shook his hands and felt embarassed,
of my weak name and my tiny hand in his large masculine grip.
Adamson? , I wondered. He looked very much from the Indian subcontinent. He had dark hair which shades of grey at the temple.
His complexion though light, was not fair enough by European standards. Yet there was something about him which said that he had an Aryan lineage and not of Dravidian descent.
"Yes. My great great grandfather was from Berkshire in England.", he said answering my unasked question.
"My grand father married a Malvani girl and settled in Ratnagiri", he said leaning across and straightening his shirt.
As he leaned over, I noticed the greenish blue tinge of his iris which certainly must have been his ancestral heritage.
The diesel engine chugged along the rail tracks pulling the 15 coaches behind.
We had left Karjat, where another engine had joined the rear end to give a boost, as the caravan of 15 rakes and 2 engines started to begin the slow winding 21 km journey along the Bhor ghat towards the Deccan plateaus.
I was pointing to Pia the village of Khopoli nestled deep between the ragged mountain line as the train started encircling the side of the Sahyadri's like a small snake.
"Is he a foreigner?," Pia my 13 year old, had an annoying habit of catching me unawares in front of others.
"He's not from this part of the world ".
I tried to ssh her politely.
"You are right. My forefathers came from a far away land.
Do you live in Mumbai? , he asked Pia.
"Yes, Worli naakaa. ", Pia replied.
"Well then, Worli is foreign too", Oliver said mocking at her.
Pia and me both looked at him in surprise.
I was trying to check any signs of lunacy in those green blue eyes.
But none were forthcoming.
He must have seen the ridicule in our eyes.
Holding a newspaper in his left hand, he began to explain the movement of tectonic plates beneath the earth's crust and continental drifts that occurred millions of years ago.
"So, what you see of India today was part of the Gondwana continent and Antartica, which has migrated along the tectonic plates and crashed against the rest of Asia millions of years ago.
So, dear Pia, most of India is in essence foreign to Asia ", Pia and me both were spell bound.
"These western ghats of Sahyadri's are a testament to that crash.
They were formed by buckling of earth's crust during the clash and subsequent volcanic eruptions enriched the soil", he demonstrated that by crumpling his newspaper against the carriage wall and made a crackling noise.
The only volcanic activities and clashes faced by someone like me, who bordered around 40% pass marks, was from Pia's mother, when i would forget to get the bread on my way home from work.
This was like listening to a Geology professor talking about the earth's metamorphosis over years.
Like listening to Attenborough on nature...
Like listening to Copernicus about astronomy.
( Was it not Copernicus, who had argued that the earth or the moon or is it the sun?, which revolve around one or the other. Hence, he was condemned by the contemporary scientific society then? )
This was too much to handle for a second attempt BA pass lower divisional clerk like me.
My domain remained in trying to get right the balance sheet of my company sales every month by banging on a calculator and bargaining with the bhaji waali for an extra potato on the weighing scale.
My little brain and my life's small standards, found it too strenuous to contemplate on the happenings on the earth's surface all those years ago.
But for Pia's sake, I feigned an interest in the discussion.
Pia, though, was totally facinated, engrossed.
Yet her feisty rebellious attitude ( from maternal side) wouldn't give up easily.
"If you are new to a place, isnt it a foreign place? " by now she has moved with her back to the windows to stand over Oliver, as if to gain an upper hand in the debate.
"A land is usually not foreign. It's the people who are ", smiled Adam.
I started to doze as they discussed about the tilt of Sahyadri's and how that had molded the course of rivers eastwards.
Those who have travelled by train to Pune, will know of Monkey Hill station. It's not a station at all, but a 200 yard stretch on the mountainous path where the train slows down to take the curves.
The tribal people, katkari, living in the mountains take advantage of the slowing journey and sell local produce and berries.
Dutifully, I purchased the karvanda packaged in dried leaf cups from a lady who had her year old baby tucked on her waist, yet walked upright balancing the hand woven basket over her head carrying her jhambhul and karvanda.
True to my nature,
i bargained over the cost of those berries, then realising that the narrowness of my behaviour was witnessed by Oliver, handed her extra 5 rupees.
" i hope they are nice and sweet", i said just for the sake of saying something.
"Dada, if all are sweet , you won't appreciate the taste.
If you get a sour one,
Just wait and you will get a sweet one sooner or later..
A few sour ones and a few sweet ones....
The tree shares equally all her fruits with us....
And that adds to the taste...
After the next tunnel, you will get a beautiful view of Dukes nose, Dada. Keep your camera ready.", I looked at the retreating figure, as she tiptoed the steep inclination with ease, having offered me her knowledge of
View points for Photography and Philosophy.
Pia and Oliver were oblivious as they carried on.
"The conception and construction of the Bhor ghats is a compelling story of suffering, perseverance, brutality, and eventual triumph played out for almost two decades.
The Bhor ghat with its 2000 feet incline, 26 tunnels and 60 culverts did not surrender easily to the engineers and their men. This happened amidst heat, scarcity of water, falling rocks and epidemics."
"How do you know all of this uncle? ", Pia as ever was inquisitive.
"If you look at a plaque on the dome of 25 tunnel, you will find the name 'Thomas Adamson' engraved on it.
I am his great great grandson.", Oliver said with a hint of pride.
One of my childhood memories was travelling with my uncle.
He would stand in the doorway of the train and sing
" हिरव्या हिरव्या रंगाची झाडी घनदाट
सांग गो चेडवा दिसता कसो खंडाळ्याचो घाट",
i decided to mimic him and hummed the tune, feeling the gentle breeze from the mountains on my face, as I stood in the doorway.
To my surprise Oliver knew the song too and joined in.
From afar as the train emerged from the bowels of the 25th tunnel, the plumes of smoke from the diesel engine could be seen disappearing into the clear blue skies above, i could see the curving train lines as they disappeared beyond a thick overgrowth of trees into the railway station.
As a new born wakes up when hungry, so did the little Khandala platform buzz up on arrival of our passenger train.
Besides me only 3 other passengers got down on the platform.
A young couple was trying to board along with their infant.
"Wrap the towel closely around Babli's ears, Manjule.
The wind has picked up.", the elderly mother warned, as she eased the cloth bag from over her head onto the rail carriage.
She was wiping her moist eyes with the edge of her saree pallu, wondering when her eyes would see again her daughter and grandchild.
Her daughter, who as a young girl would help her in her kitchen chopping, making masala pastes or grinding khobra, was now the pride of a kitchen and had her own home hundreds of miles away...
The station manager in his red dress with the red and green flag,
The ancient Rambhau who would carry our bags to the rickshaw or
The feeble dog sniffing around the garbage bin....
Khandala platform hadn't changed in over a decade.
If Mr James Watt's grandmother hadn't boiled a kettle in her kitchen,
The world of railways would have eluded us for a long time.
Railways is somewhat similar to the blood vessels in our body. Taking goods from one area to the other.
Both, totally indespensible...
When one is fortunate to receive
a 'Ticket for a Journey', one cannot choose the fellow passengers.
Whether it was
Oliver's views on continental shifts and India being foreign to Asia,
or
The dark complexioned boy in shorts who gave me a lesson in civics
or
The tribal lady who taught me with her sweet sour berries..
I am not too sure...
But, i felt gratitude towards
that 'Ticket dispenser'.
In His/Her own way,
He/She had enriched my little life..
A refreshed body and a refreshed mind wondered,
Whether one travels from
Dadar to Khandala or
Khandala to Dadar,
Staying on the right track is relevant.
Fast trains or slow trains..
The destination and direction remains the same.....