The train that I never took

Long, long ago in a distant land near the river bed of Brahmaputra, my mother gave birth to me. Since the time I started learning to walk on earth, all I did was till the land and sow it with seeds. The seeds bore us fruits and rice and we happily ate it till the time a hoard of aliens marched into my land. They slowly spread across everywhere, took my land, my fields, my home and of course my luxury of eating freely. I was threatened in my own homeland, and my hungry belly cried in agony. It was in those moments of hunger and deprivation that I decided to leave my land and came to Bangalore with a group of friends. They called it a dream city. I too dared to dream here. My dream turned into a reality and I got job as a security guard in a palatial office near Outer Ring Road in Bangalore. Happily I toiled, saluted all smartly clad English speaking men and women and pretended to protect everyone from any immediate danger. Though I knew it well that with a mere stick in my hand, I would not be even considered as a first line of defence from any prospective threat to the company. I also knew it well I would be the first casualty if any untoward incident happens. But, I know death well enough, so the idea of dying in a freak accident never bothered me. I carried death everywhere, I dared to breathe. It was my familiarity with death that the factor of sharing any kind of repulsion against death never occurred to me. Death has always been a revelation to me, a constant reminder that tomorrow everything might come to an end. Why tomorrow? Maybe, now itself, the very moment we are interacting and sharing our thoughts in this chaotic space of life. I have seen and cried in great pain as my brethren died in bomb blasts and army encounters with constant regularity. I tell you, when one dies, the body looks no less than a huge chunk of flesh soaked in blood. Eyes would be always looking at a distant land. Perhaps in those unreachable track of land lies death -- silent and shy -- as it devoured my innocence in the wake of the killing of people whom I had loved and lost unabashedly. Death could not stop my hunger for living. I am thick-skinned, just greedy enough to complete the cycle of life I am blessed with. I have intelligently packed my losses and sorrows in a suitcase of agony. I never dared to open it, it carries a storm. And I know once opened, it would leave behind a trail of death and destruction. I fear not death, but yes, hunger creating storm in my belly and frowns in the faces of my loved ones. That is why I travelled more than 2000 km to provide security and safety to strangers, when I have never known or experienced the idea of a protected life in my own homeland. Farce it is, farce it was, and I feel like a joker in the entire act. So, when I was offered the job of a security guard, the absurdity of the task entrusted to me hit me hard. “Am I the right person for the job?” The shadow of doubt never ceased to leave me. It kept clouding and clogging my mind and heart for long. “Me --- defenceless, vulnerable, unprotected --- can I protect others?” I knew the answers well. I am and was not the right person to watch over others. But options were few and far between. So, I decided to listen to pangs of hunger devouring me. And, gladly accepted what was offered to me. That day I adorned the uniform of a security guard. I was given a sky blue shirt with the name of the security agency which hired me embossed on it with black and a pair of black trousers. I was also given a stick and a whistle, as accessories to highlight my poor bearing. I managed to stand out in the crowd. After all, the crowd entering the campus of the office could not afford to ignore my presence. That gave me some importance. I too basked in the glory. All of a sudden, people started acknowledging my reality. But deep in it embedded the reality of my existence. I was just a face — a chowkidar, a security guy who was supposed to get up from his creaky wooden chair every time people would enter and exit the building. They addressed me as bahadur, bhaiyya, and at times oyee too. And, happily I acknowledged them with my smile. Here I stayed, remained glued to my job, which fetched me Rs 10,000 every month after a decade-long loyalty. I was doing well, sending money to my ailing mother and two brothers for whom I was the only support system. That was my only motivation and pride that pushed me through all agony and hardships. In my dream city, I had a shack too. Not so long ago, I shared it with my friends. We used to cook, eat and sing songs of land left behind in unison. Occasionally, my lover would visit me. Her sweet notes of love would always impregnate the four walls of my dilapidated structure with a sticky aroma of desire, even long after she would leave behind my naked apparition with a renewed longing. My home had a leaky roof with a few holes decorating it with systematic regularity. Those gaps turned me into a stargazer. Up there in the sky lie the stars and nebulae. The universe was a fast expanding phenomena. I too was part of the growth. I might be the tiniest of the tiniest, but none the less, part of the greater life and its never- ending saga. In my confined life, I would always find excuses to make it meaningful in my own absurd ways. Nonetheless, I tried to survive and I deserve the credit of being a survivor. The monotonous existence almost made me believe that things would remain same forever. But change is perhaps the only constant. I experienced it again and again and I won’t deny that would happen to me again. That day my friend called me, and told me he was leaving Bangalore. The urgency in his voice was palpable. He insisted me to pack my bags immediately, as hundreds and thousands were leaving. All he said was the train would take thousands to Assam. “We would be safe if we can manage to catch the train.” As soon as my friend disconnected the line, I got a call from an old relative of mine from my homeland. All he did was cried. It was a cry filled with mourning. He was mourning the death of my mother and two brothers. The hut in my village had been burnt down and the fire devoured three of them. All they could manage to collect were a few skeletal remains of the dead persons. I remained silent. He too asked me when was I coming back home. I went to the railway station and waited for my friend to arrive. He arrived with a group of 20-odd acquaintances. They were all set to board the train. The train looked like a slaughterhouse packed with some clueless animals for the journey they had no idea about. In the melee as I was pushed inside the train by force exerted on me from all sides, I gathered all my strength and jumped out of the train. I cannot travel to collect the ashes of those whom I had left behind long back. I decided not to board the train. “If death has to come, it can come anywhere,” I told myself. “A displaced soul like me can never have a home. I have to make home wherever my destiny would take me. I just cannot leave my space in Bangalore which I have won in the past 10 years,” I repeatedly told myself. (This is the story of Surjeet Brahma (name changed). I met him at Bangalore City Railway Station, the day when thousands of people belonging to various parts of Northeast India left Bangalore. I was there to find out if any of my acquaintances were boarding the train. Like Surjeet I, too, did not board the train. Like him I, too, had my own reasons. Not all are lucky enough to find shelter in the safe confines of their homes. Some people don’t have a space called home, they are homeless. And we both have accepted that in different ways.)