Sikkim Sonata

I started writing my travelogues after Dr. Watson, an established Physician and my esteemed friend and companion said that my anecdotes while on travel made interesting effects on the hearing faculty of people and could make interesting reads too. So, here I start with Sikkim Sonata-my first in the series.

Train journeys always have a topic of discussion-mostly co-passengers! My journey from Guwahati to New Jalpaiguri aboard the New Delhi bound Rajdhani Express had been uneventful. A pan chewing gentleman sat next to me who kept on screaming into his mobile phone and tried feeding me tit-bits which I just dismissed with the shake of my chin. As the train entered New Jalpaiguri my temper had risen to indecent levels. The gentleman (who I came to know as a wholesaler of spices during his conversation with me and on the phone) had bugged me with boring words and the bay where I had my berth was going to be filled with passengers boarding there. The waiter had served me a great meal thereby saving the spice-man from the upcoming harm and as I just smeared my parathas with some butter when one camouflaged “fauji” came inside and put a heavy bag next to my feet barely missing my toes. He was followed by three women in decreasing order of all statistics (except height which was inverse)- I later named them “naani”, “mummy’ and “bebo” (Not “babe” or “baby” because I had saved these for somebody more close to me). They were almost Russian Dolls saved only by the fact that “naani” had shrunk a bit!! Anyways, as they entered they grumbled (Is grumbling directly proportional with the age of female hormones?) over everything. My first look on them was returned with a volley of questions but I put up my serious face (the one in which I smoke a cigar and think away to glory) and concentrated on dissecting the pieces of chicken and rice given to me by virtue of my being a traveler in the train. The Ladies were followed by three more “faujis” who dumped more and more luggage into the bay (How do I tell them that it wasn’t the Bay of Bengal) and left. Then came two gentlemen with the ticket and checked the berths and then withdrew. They left the whole area and me to the mercy of these three dominatrices.

“Mummy” was in her early 40s and spoke with authority. She grumbled that people in India did not have any civic sense and class. Trains did not offer “value for money” and hooligans had captured the area under her seat. Suddenly a small man appeared out of nowhere and dragged three suitcases from under “mummy’s” seat and disappeared. “Mummy” had made her presence felt. After settling down- implying that every piece of luggage had been shoved somewhere or else (thankfully, not mine) and we were on an island surrounded by luggage on all sides. The ladies sat on one side and the gentlemen on the other side with me- they gave me some courage and hope that if these two can survive the onslaught for such a long time, I can definitely survive it for 20 odd hours. Lunch arrived and a game of “passing the parcel” started- this game was mandatorily to be played at mealtimes it seemed as if “Naani” was the winner in this game because she managed to pass the most of her food to her grandchildren “Bebo” and “Tarmohican”(Please be patient- I shall explain the meaning of “tarmohican”) and her son-in-law. “Naani” was the tormented matriarch of the family. On one side “mummy” ordered her and from the other “bebo” used her tongue. Few years back she must have been the real matriarch but then age displaces one’s position. Politics, I had learnt during my evolution was more of everything than political science. In the present case, it was physics-displacement to be precise.

Now on to “Bebo”. 20ish (20 to be exact-I used my investigation skills and checked the reservation chart to ‘calculate’ her age). She was blessed with age and sponsored by ‘Revlon’- a cosmetic giant of the 21st Century. Her face was hidden behind a layer of eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, blush, rogue, lipstick, cream and powder to mention the least. I must tell you that Sherlock had malafide intentions of licking her face but he showed restraint because he knew that she was a “honeytrap” and could kill him with a potent weapon called “cosmetic poisoning”. But I have a question to ask my ladylove- Baby, could you sleep with your make-up off. I am sure you don’t want me to die of “Cosmetic Poisoning”. Isn’t it? “ Tarmohican was “Bebo’s” younger brother- ok guys his name was Bharat (Oh! What a great name. The name reminded me of an actor of yesteryears who was known more by his screen name of “Bharat” and his ability to constantly hide his face away from the gaze of fans to tax inspectors). I named him so because he seemed a hybrid resultt of a failed attempt to cross Tarzan with “a Mohican”. His hair was like a Mohican (I hear that a Brazilian footballer by the name of Ronaldo has popularized such a hair dressing fashion) and he never was on the ground. I can’t call him Spiderman because he leapt too much in between the seats and air. I haven’t yet seen a man who has his lunch on the train with his feet on one of the berths and hanging in mid-air. Inspired by his daredevilry I took the liberty of naming him “Tarmohican”. But he was the most read among the whole lot. He had a “Diltonish” look (Now you are a jerk if you haven’t read Archie comics and let me tell you that I am going to quote a lot of references from them) and had a bundle of Xeroxed material with him (Exams in the neighborhood Dilton?). I later came to know that he was a student at Sikkim Manipal University at Dubai. Globalisation and computerization are two things which are beyond the analysis of Holmes. Thanks to them even Sikkim could be shifted to Dubai. Ms. Hope, you gave Bob a lot of hope but instead of China, Sikkim landed in Dubai!! The other cute thing about him was that he called “bebo” Sis!!!!!

The whole family wanted “naani”to go to the loo (cmon guys don’t force her) and tried all tricks under the train ceiling to make “naani” go to the loo. But “naani” wouldn’t budge. Even when “bebo” offered to take her “naani” declined. Wish “bebo” had asked me!! Finally the man of the house (let’s call him Papa) put his foot down (he had one foot in his mouth so he put the other down) and decided to lay everyone in bed. “Naani” was put opposite me where she would snore away to glory for the next three hours. “Mummy” took the middle berth above “snoring naani” and “tarmohican’ above his mother. Papa went out for a walk. I was the happiest. “Bebo” was to be on top of me(Let me revel in this metaphorical bliss). The only thing separating me and her was the thick bunk which if considered inconsequential could be made to disappear. I pulled my blanket and drifted off to sleep to be woken later by “snores of naani”. I would have killed her but she finally said what everybody had been waiting to hear- “I wanna go to the loo”. Yahoo!!! Euphoria arrived. Faces lit up. “Tarmohican” took her out on this walk to perdition while I smiled to myself. Finally was happening what everybody had been waiting for so long to happen. Should I have ordered Champagne?? Probably Yes!!!
“Naani goes to the loo” could have been given a cinematical form but I decided to leave this job to the Steven Spielbergs of the modern era. After all, I am a sleuth not an entertainer. I was more amused at the relieved look which was evident on five faces- four of them were relieved that “naani” went to the loo and “naani’s” because the rest of them spared her the ordeal of listening to them time and again. I, the silent spectator in the whole scene was the happiest. My head was spinning because of the constant pickering and I got some relief- rather most of it.

Tarmohican was lost in the papers he had brought. He would raise his head once in a while, crack a joke and then go back to his papers. Suspiciously, I peeked into the papers that he had brought along. On dog-eared xeroxed pages were scribbled lines of complex equations. Was Tarmohican, Albert Einstein in disguise?Oh my God! If this was true, I was with a Nobel laureate. “Shut up Sherlock, don’t act like a madman”, my mind said to me. Dejected, I waited for the waiter to bring me my evening cup of tea.

As the “high tea” arrived. The game of passing the parcel started again. This time the ex-fauji Son-in law (ex-fauji not ex-son-in-law) was the winner. “Mummy” collected all the winnings from her husband and quickly produced a bag into all the stuff went. Tea Bags, Sachets of coffee, sugar, skimmed milk powder and chocolates made their way into the planned place. The bag proudly portrayed its age-old capacity to gobble up all these stuff. It made me think of as to why we did such things. We never used tea bags at home. Sugar cubes were never a part of our daily cuppa and skimmed milk powder could never beat the freshness of the milk delivered by the milkman. But then why? Quick came the answer, “a penny saved is a penny earned”. All these small savings will one day add upto a treasure. Maybe when Bebo would get married, Mummy would proudly say, “The Groom’s family was served tea with the tea bags collected by me over a decade. What a savior and conservator I am” Ha ha. I now wanted to donate the stuff in my tray too. Bebo’s sweet face made me the “best Samaritan” around. But then mummy was the epitome of self-respect. She would ‘steal’ only stuff given out on her fare. Collecting from fellow-passengers was beyond her dignity. Phew! I sipped from the tetrapack of juice that came in the tray and I kept on sipping on it till the liquid in it disappeared and gave way to air inside. I made an irritating noise and attracted attention. Bebo looked at me with contempt. Eeeeks! I stopped and put away the blown up pack. Faking an element of embarrassment on my face, I smiled at all around. They all stared at me. Ohhhhhhhhh, what pleasure I derived being a creep!!

The next hour I pretended to read of “Animal Farm” by George Orwell. Every 2 minutes I would flip the pages, but in reality, all I did was listening to their conversation and casually glace at Bebo’s face. I know, you would be surprised but this was what I was doing. “Mrs. Tiwari is such a creep. She served Rasna to us yesterday. It was so cheap. It was just out of courtesy that I gulped it down” Mummy complained. “I did not even touch it” Naani commented. “Arrey you should have tasted the kebabs in the Khanna party. They were as hard as stones” Said Bebo jumping into the bitching session. What a letdown. Bebo jumping into the session meant such heartbreak for me. I had to jump and grab the pieces before they fell on the floor with a crashing sound. Now don’t assume that I was sad because Bebo had jumped into it. I was sad because I was not a part of it. I know, the eternally gossipy Holmes that Ms. Adler would never approve of.

I was looking for a topic to open my mouth and say something eternally intelligent when that blasted waiter came into the bay and said in his rustic accent, “Sir Soup”. “Yes, I know, you idiot. It indeed is soup. You put me into a soup. Now all I need to do is jump into and save me from drowning in it. Isn’t that what you want”, my eyes said to him as I picked up a cup of brown-red liquid that smelt of pepper and what Indian Railways called, “Tomato Soup”. Going by their analogy, “crow curry” could be passed of as “chicken curry”. Beware Holmes, beware. “Honeytraps” on all sides set by adversaries. On one hand I looked at Bebo and her folks with utmost affection and on the other hand my “survival instincts” pushed me away from all such “material” things. Anyways, I let myself out of it.
“Tarmohican” was still busy with his papers. He was the most likeable in the whole family. The most amusing part was his hanging from anything possible in the train. With his notes clutched in one hand, he would use the other hand to show his primate background. He was the second man who reminded me that we had descended from monkeys. The first one was a colleague who used to have more than a dozen bananas for breakfast. When I pointed out his quality to him, the fellow instead of thanking me, chased me with a pocket knife. How ungrateful people are, I had a first-hand lesson that day. Anyways, coming back to the present, Tarmohican’s antiques made me move my head the way he moved. Bebo noticed this and said, “Isn’t he cute?” Bingo! The first words from her divine presence around me. I smiled and said, “Indeed”. Oh angel! At your words I can even find porcupines cute.

Dinner arrived. The game of “passing the parcel” started. This time I was the loser. Naani passed her share of chicken curry and parathas to me saying, “Puttar, you are young. You can help me finish this tray”. Naani was probably an agent of the adversary. I politely accepted the casseroles but did not touch them as I did not want my gastrointestinal faculties to fail me in near future. “Tarmohican” hung himself while eating (hung himself as in not hanging by the noose, but hanging on anything he could find on the train). He will one day become a replica to the “hanging gardens of Babylon” and will be the first “hanging” software professional. Bebo nibbled on the pieces of salad while mummy and daddy quietly finished the whole course.

Now it was time to hit the bunk. I was dreading the snores of naani and eagerly waiting for bebo to “get on top” of me (not literally). Anyways, everybody went to their bunks and the lights were switched off. I slept my way to lalaland. Suddenly, there was a huge jerk. Everything moved and suddenly came to a halt. I clutched at something that I could find. The pull resulted in a scream that woke up everybody. “Since when did curtains started screaming”, I thought. Hell no! it was not a curtain. It was Bebo’s hair. Again a goof up! Oh God! Save me. Chanting a few hyms, I turned around and went to sleep. Damage was assessed after putting on the light. Different theories were propounded- from me being the culprit (that was Tarmohican’s theory- what a sleuth that kid was!) to Naani’s theory of the hair being caught somewhere (Naani you are so cute!). I sleepily turned around and stared at all of them and then pulled the blanket over me. I made them feel that my waking up was “collateral damage” that needs to be adequately compensated by switching of the light. Mummy instructed Bebo to tie her hair and the matter ended there. Lights were switched off and the night ended. Such peace!!!

I was asleep when the waiter served tea. This time there was no “passing the parcel”. What was there to pass to anybody? You wouldn’t have anything to share except 2 glucose biscuits and even mummy’s “collection bag” did not have the capacity to gobble up the excess water. What a waste? I left the bay and went to the restroom to get ready for the day.

The train bamboozled its way into the railway station at the stipulated time. I looked through the window to find my dear friend Dr. Watson waiting for me at the railways station. Porters hurried into the compartment and fought among themselves before soliciting passengers. I picked up my piece of luggage and moved towards the exit. Suddenly I stopped, turned towards the family and said, “Sorry Ma’m, it was me who mistook your silky tresses for the curtain. I apologise for the mistake”. Everybody looked at me in horror. “Tarmohican” was smiling though. After a few moments, Bebo killed the silence by saying, “It’s ok. I was not hurt”. I walked off scot-free and smiling.

Dr. Watson evaluated my smile and remarked, “Seems like you just returned from heaven after seeing St. Peter”. I smiled and said, “Sikkim Sonata” was indeed heaven.

P.S. All the characters depicted here are figments of imagination and any resemblance to any person living or dead is totally coincidental.