[This
is one of the mails I received thought of sharing it with you]

                    Romancing the
Harbour line

The
7.45 a.m. local train, Andheri-Victoria terminus, had its regular passengers.
This was on the Harbour line. At that time in the morning, passengers in the
first class compartment had various ex-pressions on their faces, registering
that another day had begun.

The train looked the same, so did the faces. The
12-year old boy recognized many of them but none of them spoke to him. He kept
to himself, observing but never interfering in the private worlds others lived
in.

The train dragged it into and out of stations,
throwing out but also admitting people to occupy the rexine padded green bench
seats.

The boy jumped into the train at Andheri alighting
at King’s circle station to make his way to don Bosco School. He carried a
khaki satchel containing books, which had many correction marks and remarks
that he should improve in his studies.

Once inside the train, he would see a girl just
about 20 or so.. she was pleasant to look at, simple attired through the week
in three different floral printed salwar kameezes, her dupattas would be
crumpled, just like her smile once in a while when she looked into a book and
presumably found the words amusing.

The
boy could not make out what she read because the slim books were always covered
with brown paper. These were perhaps romantic novels, which were a very popular
read in those days, lent out by circulating libraries with those brown paper
covers to keep them crisp. This was in vain, as they passed from one new hand
to another everyday.

The books could have been Mills & Boons, they
could have been Gulshan Nanda stories about a hero, heroine, villain and
horrible circumstances. The girl..the woman ..was always alone, friendless. At
times in the train, the don bosco boy imagined that sha gave a nod to him but
he did not respond. What if she did not smile back at him after he did?

The boy was in seventh standard, not crazy about
studies. Like many other boys he preferred to spend time in school’s compound,
playing volleyball and tennis ball cricket.

The khaki satchel that he carried was a burden. He
wished he could throw it away on the railway tracks as the train carried him to
and fro from school.

Seventh standard meant several subjects that he
could not figure: mathematics, geography, history, everything. He did not care
if he had not studied and would be pulled up. He scowled to himself that the
girl in floral salwar kameez just kept reading.

Then it was June, July may be. He does not remember
the exact moment but he can recall it was raining as if heavena had opened to
shed tears. He was in his plastic raincoat.

The young woman had a blue and
pink umbrella next to her. As always, she got off at Bandra station that day
but forgot her umbrella. Before she could get off he train, another passenger-
a man about 25 leapt to pick up the umbrella. He patted her on the shoulder and
said, “excuse me, you have forgotten something..i don’t want you to get wet.”

She
broke into the sunniest smile on the cloudy day and said “Thank You.”

The man returned to his seat. The boy had seen him
before but his gaze had never lingered on him- just another office worker
perhaps. But he had done something so gallant. He returned to his seat, he was
hero of the day.

Others
looked at him, returning to their newspapers, prayers beads or just looking
here and there, anxious about what the pouring rain would do to them when they
alighted. The young woman, I was sure reached wherever she had to safe and dry.

Next day the rain continued. She occupied the same
seat, so id he, looking way at nothing in particular. But when she alighted at
bandra so did he.The next day, they were sitting next to each other. Next
month, their bodies touched each other’s. She was carrying the umbrella even
though it was dry. When she got off the train, he would pick up the pink and
blue thing and hand it over with a flourish.

This ritual continued for a month or more. The boy
missed the romance….then he forgot them…till they returned, looking comfortable
with each other .

The boy imagined that they had married. Actually,
they had, going by the rings on their fingers, the sindoor in her maang. They
looked good together. She wore floral saris now, he was still in his dark
shirts , dark trousers and briefcase. Two working people going their own ways,
in love. The boy was now in ninth standard. The couple smiled at him and asked,
“How was school?” he nodded shyly.

Two years passed, a couple who met in the train,
liked each other and married. Maybe something like this couple could happen to
him too, the boy thought. Till it rained again …furiously.

The
couple were in the same train, same time but looked like strangers, moving
robotically. The school boy’s raincoat had changed to a casual windcheater as
if to defy the rain gods.

The woman’s umbrella was now white with festive
ribbons. She took care to take it along with her when she alighted at bandra
station.

She would not mechanically at her man with the
briefcase; he would nod back, and return to her crossword puzzle. Or he would
smoke a cigarette, dragging on it deeply.

The boy was worried; something was going wrong the
couple did not look the same. The man was now wearing a tie and often jabbed a
calculator. The boy still did not ask him anything. Every one has problems, the
boy thought.., the boy had his.. how to pass exams, how to keep his father an
accountant with UNICEF happy. Dad had a meager pay packet. So who cares, what
this man wearing a tie is facing with his woman in a floral sari…and just a
speck of sindoor.

It is okay, the boy thought. Everything works out
till it rained heavily again the next day. The woman forgot her umbrella when
she alighted at Bandra station.

And the man did not do a thing. He lit a cigarette;
let her go out into the rain without any protection.

When the man got off at King’s circle station, like
the boy did, the gallant one left the umbrella remain where it was.. on the
green rexin seat.. a disowned white nylon umbrella with red rose buds.

The
Don Bosco boy picked up the umbrella. He took it away with him, hiding it like
a stolen jewel in his khaki satchel.

Then
like the a July cloud he cried and cried.

Is this the what they call love?