the message

If there is one thing that I have gained after seven weeks of summer internship, it is the sound knowledge of the working of Eastern Railways and the Kolkata Metro. This story is a direct culmination of all that knowledge. Also, pardon my Hindi if in some places it is incorrect. (Update : many thanks Vishala Arya for the corrections :P )


--


"Poroborti station, Belgachia. Platform dan dike."

"Agla station, Belgachia. Platform, dahine taraf."

"The next station is Belgachia. The platform is on the right side."

Rajat looked up from the magazine he was reading as the automated voice sounded over his head. He gave an exasperated groan, and cursed the Kolkata Metro announcements to himself. A 40 minute trip from one one terminal station to the other, spanning the whole of Kolkata from the south to the north, fraught with annoyances such as cackling automated female voices and sweaty co-passengers, wasn't the sort of start he had been expecting to an internship. Also, he had missed the new air-conditioned metro by a whisker, and that added to his present miseries.

As the train reached a standstill, it struck him, that his destination was now only a few minutes away, so he should better ready himself if he wanted to make the most out of the rush when the sliding doors gave way.

With a lurch, the train pulled away again, and Rajat nearly toppled to one side as he tried getting up. Clinging onto the handlebars, and cursing under his breath he steadied himself on his feet. And simultaneously, the automated female voice cackled once more.

"Shesh ebong prantik station, Dum Dum. Platform baa dike."

"Agla aur antim station, Dum Dum. Platform, baai taraf."

"The next and terminal station is Dum Dum. The platform is on the left side."

Rajat heaved a sigh. There, that had to be the last of them all.

He looked around. The crowd had thinned considerably. He had been praying and praying that it does. Seeing the exodus of passengers into and from the train at the stations in central Kolkata, he had remained mortally scared of his turn at Dum Dum.

Needless to say, Rajat wasn't the type of person who had frequently availed of public transport during his twenty odd years of his life in this city. He had remained confined to the luxuries of air-conditioned private cars, and rarely would one see him taking a bus or an autorickshaw. At worst, it would be a cab.

He looked out of the windows. It was still as dark as the insides of a blue whale. He had seldom been on the metro, but whenever he had, he had never travelled to the Dum Dum terminal where the new extension of the track made it come up to the surface and then travel in broad daylight. That was one little thing he was looking forward to. The transition from the darkness to the daylight, and how it happened.

A vibration in his right pocket brought him back to his senses, and he heaved a sigh realizing that he had once again come within the usual network coverage of his mobile service provider. The intermittent availability of the network throughout the boring 40 minutes of journeying in the underbelly of Kolkata had given him yet another thing to crib about. 

He took out his phone and noticed that it was a text message from a friend, Sup it read. At work? 
On the way. Shit crap this thing, he replied, and looked out of the window again, wondering when exactly would he start feeling the ascent.

And then suddenly, there was light all around. He frowned. That's it? The thing just goes out from darkness into light? Without any funny feelings in your tummy. On second thoughts, what else would have happened. I really shouldn't have expected something like a roller coaster here.

The train had now slowed down. It was drizzling outside, and the spray from the window wet his shirt. He moved away from the windows and approached the door.

A few more minutes later, the train pulled into the station. And once again, the now murderous-feeling-inducing automated voice was back

"Jatrider onurodh kora hocche, je ei prantik station e jeno garir kamra khali kore dei."
"Yatriyo se anurodh kiya ja raha hai ki is antim station par gaadi khaali kar di jaye"

"Passengers are requested to completely vacate the metro at the terminal station."

And the train gave a final lurch and stopped. The doors slid open and the customary rush ensued. Rajat went with the flow and soon found himself on the platform. He looked around, clutching his bag close to his self, before swinging it around and straddling it on his back. He knew that now he had to make his way to the railway station at Dum Dum. He looked around and fortunately saw a big red sign showing the way down the stairs to the same. This close, huh. All good.

The scene at the railway station was chaotic. It had all the attributes of the usual Indian railway station, random filth scattered in random places, malnourished and half naked children sleeping in front of the counters. Beggars and decrepit old men lying neglected. An involuntary shudder went down Rajat's spine as he made his way and stood at the end of the queue at the ticket counter. Thankfully enough, the queue was moving pretty quick and it was within a minute or two that he had bought a two way ticket to Agarpara, his intended destination. Dropping a coin in the pleading hands of a woman in tatters, he made his way to the platform. Credits for afterlife, he smiled. He did not look it, but actually was extremely religious and believed in doing good things to people in return of a grateful smile from them. Doesn't hurt. Does it?

On the stairs up to the platform he stopped at yet another blind old man, and dropped a coin into his steel bowl. On the platform however the scene was healthier. Passengers flocked around. Some aimlessly strolled smoking bidis. Quite a few of them were on the tracks, cutting across it, instead of taking the overhead bridge in their haste. A lungi clad person who was standing a few feet away was making weird facial gestures and holding a glass of what appeared to be water in his hand. Rinsing his mouth, Rajat realised, when the person squirted out the contents inside his mouth onto the track.

He looked around. A few hawkers lined the side of the platform: magazine stalls, tea stalls and the sort. He walked up to the magazine stand and the latest copy of the Top Gear magazine caught his eye. He grinned. Not so bad after all. He turned away and looked at his watch. The next train, the Barrackpore Local was due in less than 5 minutes. He resumed his aimless strolling, checking his watch at regular intervals.

Soon enough, the green and yellow electric locomotive was in sight. It was approaching the platform quite steadily, blaring it's horn now and then. And another cackling voice, and this was far worse in tone than the mildly respectable one in the metro, blared from the loud speakers.

"Barrackpore Local arriving at platform number 1."
"Barrackpore Local arriving at platform number 1."
"Barrackpore Local arriving ar platform number 1."

Ugh. Rajat frowned.

The people who were cutting across the track scattered, and clambered up on to the platforms on either side, as the train lumbered in slowly. These oafs will die like this, Rajat grimaced. Much as he was cautious in most of the things that he did, he loathed cutting across railways tracks. What is the overbridge for then?


When the train had come to a halt, he heaved himself up and was relieved to see it almost empty. He went and occupied a window seat, two seats away from an old man reading a newspaper.

Accha dada, eita Agarpara jabe toh? (This train will stop at Agarpara, right?) he leaned to his right and asked him, just to reassure himself.

The person did not take his eyes of the newspaper, Haan. Duto station pore (yes, two stations from this).

Rajat heaved a sigh and leaned back, took off his bag and placed it on his lap. Shouldn't be a long journey, he thought.

The train had started moving by then, and it steadily kept putting on speed. A candy seller had boarded too, he noticed and he kept moving around, asking one passenger after another. He came to Rajat as well, and thrust his colourful lot of candies at him. Rajat turned him down and gazed out of the window. When was the last time I had boarded a local train? He couldn't recollect. But he was more than glad that this one was not crowded, like the ones he usually saw at level crossings - local trains with people hanging onto the doors. Like bats. As he would say.


The next station was Belgharia. The train halted there for a minute or two before lurching off again. Rajat yawned. He had been up all night watching the Champions League Final. A disappointing game, for the Manchester United Fanatic that he was, and had thus lost most of this night's sleep. He wished he was home, happily snoring in his bed. Curse internships. He muttered.

Dada, time ta koto holo? (What's the time?)
He turned around and saw a young man looking at him and pointing at his watch.

Showa Nota. (A quarter past nine) he replied. He took out his phone and whiled some time away playing some random games, till he noticed that the train was slowing down again. Realising that this was Agarpara, he got up again, and headed for the door. An old woman sat huddled, on the edge, who peered up at him when he arrived. Rajat frowned again. What's with the fascination for edges?!


A few others flocked around him, all readying to disembark. The train kept rolling, slowing down with every passing second. The impatient passengers leapt off the train and hurried away. Rajat rolled his eyes. Won't ever learn, will they?

It was a few seconds later, when the train had come to a halt, that he jumped off, and looked around. He had to reach platform number 4, and then take a rickshaw from there, he had been directed. Reaching platform 4 would mean taking the overbridge. He glanced down, along the platform and saw one some feet away.

He started walking towards it. The platform he noticed, was far less crowded than the one at Dum Dum. The hawkers and stall keepers however were the same. His eyes wandered around at the colourful advertisement bill boards. There was a new Raymond's showroom at Agarpara, and they were giving 20% discount. He read the Bengali script slowly. He had studied Bengali for twelve long years in school, and still found reading Bengali to be a challenge.

The train had started moving again. He glanced at it, as it slowly moved out of the platform. The old woman was still huddled on the edge of the door, and was looking at him queerly. For some reason he kept staring at her, till his ringing phone made him break away his eye contact.

It was his mum.

Hullo? Yeah, I've reached, ... yeah, am okay. Bye!


He dropped his phone into his pocket, and turned around once again to catch that old woman. She had gone forward by quite a distance. However, he could still see her, and the hair at the back of his neck tingled when he realised that she was still staring at him. There was something she wanted  to convey. He didn't know what.

In fact, he would never know what.

The next thing he knew a metal rod had sliced through his body. He fell down. His phone dropped upon the platform and split open. People around him gasped and rushed to lift him up.

It was too late.

--

Twenty odd kilometers away, Anindita stood outside her house, and locked the door. She looked at her husband.


Rajat's reached. Says he's ok.


Her husband nodded. You told him to collect the key from the darwan when he returns? As it is, we won't be done by then. We'll be late.


Oops. Hang on, will tell him, she called his number, and frowned. Says coverage kshetra se bahaar hai. (says that it's outside network coverage)

Network problems. Send him a message then.


Yeah Ok.

--

This story is a work of fiction. But it is based on a true story. Check this : http://www.ndtv.com/article/cities/four-killed-in-freak-accident-at-aligarh-junction-113485

november rain - a story

November Rain occupies a very special place deep within my heart. Maybe it's the feeling that the song invokes when you put it on your headphones and turn up the volume, maybe it's the music video featuring the sweeping scenes of Slash with his yellow Gibson in the desert, or maybe it's the soulful funeral music in the very end.

This story, which follows along the lyrics of this epic GnR ballad, was written 5 months back, and wasn't put up on the blog for some very obscure reason. So in case you are jobless and are willing to read something that has absolutely nothing to do with India winning the world cup, well, then you may.

--

Darkness. Complete and undivided.

As he looked out of the shattered pane of glass, outside the window, out at the dark eerie quietness of the night, he realized that he might as well be looking inwards. For the darkness outside seemed to be but an extension of the darkness within him. Blending into each other with the surety of the passing time. The creases upon his brow did give but a mere hint of his sadness, to whoever would care to look his way. But he knew perfectly well that no-one would. For there was no one left to look his way.

It had started drizzling some time back. And the steady trickling from the darker heavens above was the only sound that made its way into his ears. The sound was beautiful. Sadly beautiful. The melancholic undercurrents were strong in it. And he liked it. He liked it because he liked all things sad and beautiful. He opened his mouth to taste the night air. To taste the moistness and quench his parched throat. But all he tasted was misery. Thick dark misery. He felt liked retching.

It was then that he heard it. Something other than the drizzling, which by then, had transformed into a downpour. Something familiar. Something beautiful.

A tune. A familiar tune, floating in through the cold night air, creeping into his ears. Like some hesitant stranger outside a gate. It took him an instant to recognize the tune. And when he had, he opened his mouth again.

Words flowed out like the endless rain outside. And he sang.

When I look into your eyes,

pause.

I can see a love restrained.

The imagery that floated into his mind was a happy one. He hated it. He hated things which were happy. He let go of it. And it dropped like china on the ground. Shattering in a thousand pieces.

And darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same.

He closed his eyes. And through his closed eyes he saw the interplay of light and dark. He hated light. Light meant happiness. He hated happiness.

'Cause nothing lasts for ever,
And we both know hearts can change.

He laughed. Dry humour-less wry laughter. There are no hearts left to change, he said to himself.

And it's hard to hold a candle,
In the cold November Rain.

He loved this part. No. He liked this part. He did not love. He could not love anymore. He hated love. But yes, he liked it. He liked blowing candles out. It symbolised the triumph of darkness over light. And as he sang, in his mind's eye, the dark rains washed the lights away. 

He sang, even though he wasn't a good singer. Never had been a good singer. Never had he sung. But now, he sang. As if that was the only thing which he could do. He sang with the trickling of the rain. He sang with the darkness around him. He sang with the darkness within him. 

So if you want to love me,
then darlin' don't refrain.
Or I'll just end up walkin'
In the cold November rain.

The rain had lightened now. It was drizzling again. But it was still raining. And that was all it mattered. He liked the rain. He liked the sound. He liked the smell. He liked the taste. He liked how it felt.

Do you need some time...on your own
Do you need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

He was alone. He liked being alone. He liked the sound of being alone. You can hear sounds which you otherwise wouldn't, he had told his mother a long time back. And now, he reveled in the sounds of the solitary. The feeling was blissfully ecstatic.

The tune was still floating in. Riding on the night wind. Unwavering. Resolute. The melody was haunting. Beautiful. Bewitching. It made him breathe in lung-fulls of the night air. Yet he felt strangled. As if the air around him was a cage. And while he heard the tune and breathed in the night air, his hand dropped down.

His fingers felt something solid and hard in his pocket. Something cold.

He knew what it was. And the thought comforted him. He realized that now, he could breathe easier. As if someone had loosened the iron links that made up the cage around him. The load upon his chest seemed to lighten.

He dropped his head and looked down. Smart attire, he observed. A blue tie. A black suit. Black trousers. He liked black. Black was the colour of darkness. He liked darkness. A red ... he frowned. What is that red in my left pocket? Creases furrowed on his forehead. His hands came up and he lifted it. It felt nice. Smooth. Velvety. He looked at it closely.

I know it's hard to keep an open heart
When even friends seem out to harm you
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you

The rain was picking up again. It was getting colder too, he sensed. He liked it. He liked the cold. It calmed him down.

Suddenly in the distance far away, he observed a flickering source of light, through the rain. It was faint and it shone through the water. It shone through the distance. With much trepidation.

And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain, oh yeah

The fear. The fear of the light. He hated it. It spoiled the purity of the darkness. He detested it. The  shadows. He hated them too. They were caused by light and they were impure. They were bits of darkness caused by light sources. He loathed them frauds.

I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame

Love. Exactly how much he hated love, even he was unsure. But alone. He liked being alone. He liked being the only one left.

He looked out, breathing heavily. The night outside was wilder than he had ever seen it and the rain was heavier. Much heavier. A sudden lightning forking through the night, made him recoil involuntarily. It hurt his eyes. He hated it.

So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way

No. A voice in his head said. He wanted darkness. Not a way out of it.

The thunder rumbled yonder.

He looked at the red in his hand. There was a sudden outburst of realisation. And his eyes popped. His head reeled.

No! The voice was screaming now.

He gasped.

Or maybe it is time, a softer, quieter voice spoke.

It is time, he convinced himself through his gasps.

The cold hard object in his pocket had never felt more comforting.

'Cause nothin' lasts forever
Even cold November rain.

There was a muffled crack.

And then silence. Complete. Unbroken Wholesome. Silence.

-

The first glimmerings of dawn were appearing in the distance. Heralding a new day. The rays broke  through the fast dispersing clouds. Filtered through the leaves of the trees. The trees loved it. The night had been cold. And wet. The trees welcomed the light of the new day. 

The sun beams hit the cracked window pane, and infiltrated inside. The sight was sorry. A figure in black lay slumped in one corner. The blood trickling down from the hole in the temple had still not

dried.

In one hand the gun was still smoking. In the other, the rose was still fresh.

-

A tribute to November Rain. And Guns n' Roses.

life was beautiful

disclaimer : all mathematical facts are accurate to the best of my knowledge, and drawn upon from wolfram mathworld, the best math resource on the web. Also, all characters are fictitious and should they bear any correlation with any things actual, then rest assured that they aren't intentional.

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Numbers. The one word had always meant so much for old Pandey. The one thing he had lived his entire life upon. He wasn't the great Indian mind who had been honoured with degrees one after the other, neither had he been to any college all his life. Nor did he have a chance now to make amends. But numbers always fascinated him. He had that bare minimum knowledge of English to comprehend mathematical texts, and with the oil lamp that lit his ramshackle hovel, he revelled in the world of numbers, a world of his own.

He amazed many a stranger. Pointing at the number plate of a taxi cab that just passed him he would say "7433 ...  it remains prime if any one digit is deleted." Or maybe he would stare at the morning paper, and read the headlines : 67 people feared dead, and with a smile on his face, a faraway look in his eyes, murmur "the smallest number that is palindromic in bases 5 and 6"

Most people took him to be a lunatic, but he didn't let that bother him one single bit. To him, numbers were one and all. Synonymous with life itself.

..................................

It began like any normal morning in the life of old Pandey. He had gotten out of bed, and was chewing the neem bark as he usually did. His frantic cranial activity however was evident ... written all over his face. A strange look in his eyes, mind wandering somewhere ... possibly a place even he knew not, where.

A rap on the door brought him to his senses. He blinked. His daughter would respond ... with this comforting thought, the faraway look was back in his eyes, and the neem bark, back in his mouth.

The second rap was louder. He blinked again. It took a while for him to figure it out that he was alone in his house. To remember that his daughter had been married off a month or so back. He grimaced. Quickly washing his mouth he hobbled up to the wooden door. By then a firmer, and a more impatient third knock had already sounded. He unlatched the door, and it creaked open.

Two swarthy men stepped in. It didn't take a great mind to guess however that the men weren't happy. One was big, burly and bore a menacing look on his face. The other was skinny, and lanky but looked equally grumpy.

"Yes?" Pandey ventured to ask.

"What do ya mean, yes, ya old fool?" the burly one spat out. "It's been nine months, and you haven't paid up."

"Pay?" Pandey blinked

"Yes" the skinny one made a face "Pay. For all the money we lent you. Where's your daughter ... married off on our money, eh? Bloody lucky you got, with that one ... "

"Not for long though .. " the burly one snickered.

"But .. but... it was a lottery ... a thing that I won .. my luck"

"CUT THE CRAP, OLD MAN ... and pay up"

Pandey fell silent. He had never been the sort who could argue, and certainly not with the sort of people who had barged into his house this very moment. He looked on blankly.

"WHAT YA LOOKIN' LIKE THAT FOR?" the burly one roared. The thin one snickered.

A few more seconds of silence.

Another roar.

"YOU BLOODY FOOL"

Another snicker.

Maybe the day that had begun normally wouldn't be normal anymore.

But Pandey wasn't thinking about the money, or the payment, or the two men in front of him. One word the burly one had uttered, had set him off on one of his mathematical pursuits.

The word was nine.

Nine. It was a number. And that meant more to him, at that instant, than anything and everything.

Nine! The square of three! The square of the number of spatial dimensions he lived in!

His forehead wrinkled for a few seconds. And his eyes lit up.

Nine! One half of eighteen! One half of the only positive number that could be written as double the sum of its digits! He released a sigh of satisfaction.

Suddenly he frowned. And then, a sudden wildness filled his eyes, like that of a child beholding a magic trick.

 Nine! The maximum number of cubes required to sum any positive integer! He uttered a yelp of delight.

The two men standing in front, however, weren't amused. The thin one stepped forward and gripped him by his shoulder. Pandey yelped again. This time however, out of pain. Old age, for him, had brought forth several things. One was rheumatism.

He looked at his assailant. Right into his menacing eyes, and … to the latter's incredulity, he smiled.

This proved disconcerting for the man, and he released his grip. Pandey fell back, shaken, but as nonchalant as ever. The big burly one however was tougher. He pushed the skinny  one aside and faced Pandey.

“look here … you …”, he was breathing hard. “I don care how you manage it, but I want my money. All of it.”

Pandey looked on.

The man was growing all the more menacing with every passing second. And Pandey's silence, added more fuel to his steadily increasing fury.

“You … you got it right. I want my money. I don care how. Beg. Borrow. Steal. I want my money.”

“ok”, Pandey's sudden answer, and more so the brevity of it, caught the two of them by surprise.

The man relaxed. “Better. I'm giving you one last chance old man. It's this month end that I want it by.”

Relaxed, yes. But venomous.

“yes” Pandey replied, but the air of nonchalance was all the more evident.

“So …” the big one whispered. “You have six days. Right?”

“I guess so” Pandey smiled. Six. The smallest perfect number.

“that is …”, after much trepidation, the big one continued “One hundred and forty four hours. You better have it by then. Or else … old man … you'll wish …”

The threat remained incomplete, and the two of them, cast one last menacing glance each, turned and left. Crashing the wooden door after them.

Pandey was unmoved. He stood where they had left them. Several seconds passed. Several minutes followed. Then an hour. Pandey stood on, oblivious to all that had happened a few minutes back.

One. One. Two. Three. Five. Eight. Pandey's mind was working faster than it ever had.  Fifty five. Eighty nine.

A few seconds later.

Two hundred and thirty three.

Three hundred and seventy seven.

Six hundred and ten.

A few more seconds.

One thousand, five hundred and ninety seven.

…

And suddenly it was all clear. He could see it to the very end. Right up to infinity.

It had to be it.

One hundred and forty four hours was what the man had said. One hundred and forty four was what it was.

One hundred and forty four was the largest perfect square in the Fibonacci series.

With a squeal of delight, he put the neem bark back in his mouth and chewed upon it.

Life was beautiful. Again.

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