This is another story of mine own creation. Since my very childhood I have been fascinated by trains. One of my favourite is the Darjeeling Mail running between Sealdah Jn. in Calcutta to New Jalpaiguri Junction in Shiliguri. This is one of the greatest trains of India. Started in 1878 in pre independent India this Grand Train has come a long way…. So I thought of dedicating a just a piece to this Royalty and here it is.
Well this just a short story which I have written based on the themes of patriotism and the age old charm of friendship and the bit of sacrifice which every one of us has to make in life. I hope you like this story.
“Do you know what you have to do, Amar?” asked Haider.
“Yes, I do.”
“You have been chosen for this. This is your destiny. Your peers have trusted you. I hope that you would not fail them.”
“I will not fail my task. I know what I have to do and I will carry it out to the ultimate perfection.” replied the 30 year old with an AK-47 hung from his shoulder, a Kalashnikov on his waist and 3 grenades in case the task failed. . .
“Amar today is the most important day of your life. Today you will reach your Higher Self. Forget about your past life it will only bring pain and look forward to the life which you will get. The ultimate reward of your actions. But tell me one thing. . . . are you afraid?”
“I am Amar and I am not a coward. Do you understand? Stop this nonsense and let me carry out what I Am supposed to do.”
Haider now had a devilish smile on his face. His face glowed in the morning sun. He felt happy that this boy had so much in him and yet he didn’t know what he was supposed to do in life until he came along. Azad Kashmir will cease to be a dream. It will be reality. Today I will rewrite the history with the help of this idiot, he thought.
Without saying much they proceeded to the jeep that was waiting for them at the gate of the dilapidated house. Amar was a little hesitant to step in. His heart had stopped him. Questions arose in his mind. Was this destiny really written for him? Is the path he was leading correct? Was he doing justice to his family? Was he doing justice to his Mother Land? But before any more questions could arise Haider had put his arm around Amar’s back and led him to the jeep.
As they passed through the scenic country side of Jammu and Kashmir Amar saw the morning sun rising from the mountains. Removing the darkness spreading light all around, that what’s I am supposed to do. They passed through the fields on outskirts of Gulmarg. Amar felt a familiarity with them. Hey this is the place where I was born. My father used to work here. My mother cooked her meals in these fields where our farmhouse was. I used to roam through these fields with Nilesh all day long. Nilesh… Suddenly Amar was nostalgic. He felt a reminiscence of warm memories of his childhood with his father, mother, sister and Nilesh. Continue reading I Love the Country Where I was Born
This story would never had been written if in the early years of my life I had decided not to live on the Railway Station or pick pocket for a living or if there was no Darjeeling Mail…
In the starting years of my life I could never understand the meaning of an orphan ‘anath’ or whatever they used to call me. The only thing I knew was that my mother had died just a few months before I could celebrate my first birthday or even call anyone ma. My father left me soon as soon as he found that ‘she’ was dead and told by Raju bhai that a well-to-do man wearing the traditional boardroom uniform – black suit-white shirt-and a checkered tie stepped down from a car probably a Sant-Roe or E-lan-tara and without saying a word ‘dropped’ me in Platform no: 5 and never looked back since. That’s how I came to live in the Railway Station. This station has been my home since the past 14 years. During these years I developed a mutual love for the railways which so generously had given me everything which I had in those days – albeit indirectly.
Life had been a hell in the station growing up with my friends who came from the nearby bastee everyday at 7 o’ clock and taught me the basic instincts of pick pocketing at an age of 5 years. So pick pocketing became my way of life and also the source of the roti-sabzi three times a day. But you know. . . men-in-coats with their Me-God-You-Dog attitude are very cunning rascals. Each time I try to go near them someone calls those fatty-blokes with their tummy protruding out in tight khaki shirts and they give me a run for my stolen money. Bloody-Black-Suit-People! In fact due to their such ‘atrocious’ acts I had go sometimes hungry. But Raju bhai whom I am have earlier introduced and who owns and runs the only station eatery ‘Mera Khana’ was a very generous sexagenarian who before closing his eatery always used to leave some leftovers of the day at the steps of his eatery for me. Oh God! Thanks for Raju Bhai who ensured that I slept with a full stomach no matter whatever it the food packet contained. Continue reading The Journey of 8:00pm via 12344 Down Darjeeling Mail