When in train do as train-people do...

Let’s get the facts right, here. I’m sitting in a train bound to Trivandrum. I boarded at Trichy. Seat number 4 in compartment B1. I get into the train. Reach my seat. And a minute later a lady arrives with two kids. They have a huge, huge suitcase. They smile at me, a very sly smile. Very funny creatures, human beings. A smile can mean so many things. I can think of a few right now:
The Genuinely amused smile.
The Sympathising-at-a-weak-joke smile.
The wicked smile.
The Understanding-nod-of-the-head smile.
The Pleased-to-meet-you-not-really-smile.
The hi-I-could-use-some-help-here-smile.
The I-don’t-understand-but-can’t-look stupid-smile.
The… well that’s all I can think of right now.
Where was I? Yes, the lady gave me a sly smile. It was category 6. Glorious Indian tradition left me duty bound to help those who seek my help. And good natured at heart, I naturally oblige. Unfortunately the suitcase wouldn’t fit under the seat, and it had to stand where in natural conditions someone would place their legs. And ironically, that someone turned out to be me. So it was settled. I would have to have a suitcase testing me for knee jerk reflex each time the train jolted. At least they’d get off at Madurai, a three hour journey.
So I resigned myself to ‘The Godfather’.
Amerigo Bonasera’s daughter was beaten to pulp when,

Lady: “Thambi, per enna?” (What’s your name?)
Me: “er… Krishna, but sorry, tamil theriyadu” (er… Krishna, but sorry, I don’t speak
Tamil)
Lady: “oh… ok.”

It’s Connie Corleone’s wedding, and her brother Sonny is checking out the bridesmaid, and suddenly,

Lady: “where… studying?”
Me: “REC, Trichy.”
Lady: “And where going?”
Me: “Trivandrum.”
Lady: “ok,ok…”

Luca Brasi is giving the Godfather his gift,

Lady: “we live in Singapore.”
Me: “oh, you came here for a holiday?”
Lady: “No, no. kids are having vacations, so we come.”
Me: (smile 4) “ok…”

So, many pages of brilliant description, powerful character sketches, intricate plot, inquisitive queries and monosyllabic replies later, Madurai arrived. Oh yes, and so did the smile 6 that I anticipated. I half pushed and half fell over the suitcase and got it to the door. They got off.

Lady: “Thank you so much.”
Me: “oh, you’re welcome, no problem.”
Lady: (to kids) “say thank you to anna.”
Kids: “Thank you anna.” (anna means elder brother).
Me: “You’re welcome.”

At last the train leaves. And I resign myself to my book again. It’s funny, though, that now they’ve left, I slowly lose interest in the book (no offence, Mr Puzo, you’re one heck of a man). I mean it’s no longer a challenge. The plot is progressing very smoothly, no breaks, no interruptions (by the way, the people who took their places were gems. Just gave me a smile 5 and kept to themselves), so strangely I lost the will to read. I gave up the fight after 220 pages and took out my laptop.

I observed that now the number of people staring at me increased by a factor of ten. Annas selling coffee paused to have a peek. Kids travelled from places as far as seat 59 to look at the modern wonder. Passers by stopped to look. Some even smiled. The guy in the bunk above is, as I type, sticking his head out and oscillating his frame of vision between the laptop and my guitar.

I’m feeling very insecure now, with all this staring.
Have-to-stop-turn off-laptop…

But first, think about this. If I were in some place other than Tamil Nadu or other rural regions of our beautiful country, I would still be typing away at leisure. Why is this?

Well, as someone very correctly put it, “We are like this only…”