Why did I ever agree to stay back in Delhi for two more days? I don't have an answer to this question even today. But the memory of the tragedy that I was part of because of that one decision still haunts me.
I had gone to Delhi on a business trip. My hosts, a very resourceful organization, got my train ticket cancelled and procured a fresh one for a later date. I could not possibly spurn their warmth and affection. I spent the two days most enjoyably – chatting with people from some other organizations and attending dinner parties and meetings. And two days later, escorted to the station by several members of the organization, I boarded the train.
The four-berthed cabin where I had my seat was full. A small family had already occupied three berths. The man was young. So was his wife. Their children were traveling with them. The boy was about ten years old, and the girl, a very sweet child, less than four.
Perhaps because so many people had come to see me off, none of them talked to me just then. I too did not start a conversation right away. It was only after my friends had left that my fellow passenger asked me, in English, “Are you going up to Guwahati?"
"Yes. And you?" I asked in turn.
"We are going to Sivasagar, but we'll spend a night at Guwahati," the young man replied, smiling.
"Great! We’ll be traveling together all the way then. Do you work in Sivasagar?"
"Yes, in the oil company."
"Is that so? How long have you lived there?"
"For more than six years. She was born there." He pointed to his little daughter.
That was how it began. We soon became good friends. And the catalyst was the little girl, Munni.
Munni's father, Sanjay Chopra, was originally from Punjab. But his parents had bought some property in Delhi and settled there. He himself was based in Sivasagar and had gone to Delhi on some business. Now he was returning to his place of work. I vaguely recalled that his father had come to the station. I think I also saw him wave goodbye. But since I was busy talking to my friends, I didn't notice what he looked like. In any case, neither father nor son wore a turban. Obviously, they were not Sikhs. Not that this is important in any way. I mention it merely because whenever we talk of Punjab is, we have a preconceived notion that all Punjabis are Sikhs and wear turbans.
Theirs was a very sweet family. It did not take me long to appreciate this. The little girl quickly got over her initial reserve and revealed her true nature. She was a very frisky and smart child who endeared herself to others very quickly. She spoke clearly and left me speechless by speaking in Asomiya too. Even her parents and brother had not attained that level of fluency in the language. In any case, that became secondary. I had no doubts that Munni by herself would enliven the journey.
It didn't take long for me to become "Bhai sahab" for Sanjay and his wife, Niti. For Munni and her brother, Suman, I became “Mamaji” – their maternal uncle.
"Do you have any relatives in Guwahati?" I asked at some point. No, they had none. They would stay in a hotel and catch the bus to Sivasagar the next day.
My own children, Mitu and Moni, would love Munni the moment they saw her, I realized. Both adore children. Mitu is in college, and Moni will appear for his Matriculation this year. I decided that I would ask the family to stay in our house in Guwahati. But I didn't tell them about my plan. Guwahati bound passengers start preparations for alighting as soon as the train reaches Bongaigaon. I would tell them then. If Mitu came to the station in the car sent to receive me she would suggest it herself when she meets the family. The thought pleased me.
Suman was still in one of the lower classes at school, but I was amazed at his self-confidence. He would be an IAS officer when he grew up, he said, the idea apparently having been drilled into his little head by his grandfather. And what about Munni? She happily told me, "I'll not grow up at all."
That instantly reminded me of Biren Dutta's melodious voice singing the words penned by Nabakanta Barua.
O dhun dhuniya mor okonmani,
O konkonmani mor aiti joni…
Tor kola dingir botam khula phutphutiya frock,
Tor xodai khula frock.
Nelagey toi dangor hobo,
Baideo, Ma, Aita hobo...
Truly, wouldn't it be better for a child like Munni to remain exactly as she was, instead of growing up to become an elder sister, mother or grandmother? Then, she would skip and dance around, in and about the house. She wouldn't even be aware of the buttons of her polka dotted frock coming undone. It was people like Munni who are the inspiration behind a sensitive poet's pen.
None of them were too fussy about what they ate, eating whatever was served from the pantry car. I bought some bananas at one of the stations and handed them over to Munni. She promptly tore the bananas from the bunch – one by one – and distributed them. Then she peeled her own and bit off a mouthful. I called out, "But that was the one I'd planned to eat."
"Take it then," she said, offering the half-eaten banana. Her mother quickly grabbed her hand and stopped her.
That was Munni, affable and lovable. Passengers from the adjoining cabins greeted her as they walked up and down the aisle. Her words and peals of laughter impelled all of them to talk to her, tease her or give her, if not a bar of chocolate, then small paper bags full of peanuts. It was because of her that we didn't know how time flew.
And the best part was that the train was running on time. The Railways had changed the timing so that the train would cross western Assam during daytime. Even so, because it was the North East, trains were never punctual. That this one was running on time was an exception and we hoped to reach Guwahati on schedule. This in itself was good enough to cheer me up.
Munni was dancing around on the seat despite her father's scoldings and efforts to control her. His attempts to discipline her only served to make her more ebullient. Around her ankles were a pair of silver anklets with a string of tiny bells. The bells did not really tinkle, and even if they did, the sound was too soft to be audible. Even so, the combination of that and her laughter seem to drown even the harsh metallic clatter of the train.
Suddenly she asked me in Hindi, "Mamaji, these trees and houses, where are they running to so fast?"
"Itni tez kidhar bhagte...?" A big question. A question that children all over the world must have perhaps asked ever since trains started running. I was amused.
"Have you ever met Einstein?" I asked.
"Who's Aansteen?" she countered.
"There was an old man by that name. He could have told you where these trees and houses are rushing to. But I also know where they're going."
"Where, Mamaji?"
"They're all going to Delhi, to meet your dada and dadi."
"Iss, that's a lie."
"Yes!" I insisted. “All of them will tell your dada that they saw Munni going to Assam and she was very naughty all the way ... that she was almost flying the train towards Guwahati ..."
I don't remember whether I finished what I was saying. What I do recall is that precisely at that moment, there was a deafening blast and the train seemed to fly up. Suman, who was smiling at his sister's antics from the upper bunk fell down on his mother. Everyone else was also flung about in all directions with great force.
And then everything went dark.
It must have been around seven in the morning. We had just entered Assam.
The first thing that struck me when I regained consciousness was that I could only barely open my eyes. Excruciating pain racked my body. A face hovered above, close to my ears and asked me my name, where I lived and so on.
I was unable to answer him. I had no clue about my whereabouts. And the questions served only to confuse me further. I asked him in return, gasping, "Where am I?"
The man did not respond. Instead, he told someone nearby, "He has regained his senses. Please get the details. I've to go over to that side."
What was the matter? Struggling to collect my wits, I tried to get up. But that was impossible. Even so, I tried to announce my existence by moving my limbs. I could not move my right leg or my left arm. There were splints tied to both limbs.
A terrible accident had taken place about four hours earlier. Several bogies had been smashed to smithereens. More than a hundred people had died. About twice that number were injured.
This much I gathered from scraps of agitated conversation while I was being asked for my name and address once again. Many people from the train were laid out on the grass on one side of the railway tracks. And those who seemed to have regained their senses were being asked to identify themselves.
Apparently the bomb blast had been set off by some terrorist organization. It was a remote controlled bomb, I heard them say, even as I felt encompassing darkness cloud my eyes.
Relief was on its way. Ambulance vans, doctors, medicines – all of it was coming. Messages had gone out to Delhi and Dispur. There was nothing to worry about, we were told.
My throat felt parched and rough. I could not speak at all. Even so, I murmured my telephone number to the volunteer, entreating him to inform my family that I was alive.
What about the Chopra family? And Munni? I requested him to trace them as well and then closed my eyes as yet another wave of exhaustion swept over me. A little later I heard a voice saying, "This way ... come this way." Actually, there was no way of knowing who had been put where. Only those who were in their senses had been properly laid out on the ground. I was obviously worse off than most of them.
Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice, "Bhai sahab!" ……..
For Quiz Click here