Chapter 7

The whispers were still sizzling when the TTR entered our compartment and asked around for the ID proofs. The man stood next to me, and his perfume kicked back the stench for a while. I produced my voter Id. I could have sworn I saw a look of distaste flit across the official’s face when he collected the card offered by the man whose voice was raspy and troubled when he spelled out his seat number. When TTR asked, ‘What?’ in return, it was with a voice full of ridicule and challenge. The man repeated timidly. He looked pathetic now.

After checking up on others, the TTR stood in his spot, scribbling on his pad before stepping ahead into the next compartment.

I sniffed the air, half expecting the fumes to have diffused away. That seemed to be the case through a whole minute that followed. My attention loped across other familiar details; a chugging, almost musical, sound of the rail on tracks; the rock of my whole body in tune (and a pronounced wallow of my belly); the fleeting, murky ghosts of trees outside; Yet, the disturbed expressions of my co-passengers did not seem to lift. And, it was not long before a particularly intense whiff of the now-familiar stench hit my nostrils and shocked me into betraying my indifference with a scowl.

The younger of the women opposite me got up with such a suddenness that everyone else turned an alarmed eye at her. She wore her slippers with an exaggerated shake of her legs, her gaze levelled at the lungi-clad man, her lips muttering something inaudible, a look of determined menace plain on her features. The man glanced back at her with a frown, and his reddish, watery eyes signalled no emotion to speak of. Everyone else, even the noisy couple by my side, had grown quiet. The only person not to take part in the silent drama was the young woman by the window. The headphones had gone back into her ears and kept her oblivious of the simmering unrest in the compartment and, by the looks of it, the draft to her face and whipping hair must be washing away any hint of a smell.

The woman flashed past me and out of the compartment. Her tread made it clear that her mind was not on using the bathroom.

I stood, taking care not to make it look forced or urgent, undid my slippers and pushed them under the seat with my unharmed leg. The idea came to me out of the blue to occupy my sleeping quarters before whatever transpired next. I held on to the handholds flanking the partition of the compartment and scaled the height, placing my legs gingerly onto the footrests, both engineered and makeshift. I could sense rather than see eyes following the swaddled, bloody part of my leg with concern and caution. I knew better than to give them the benefit of acknowledgement.

I hauled myself over into a sitting position on the berth. From the high vantage, I spotted the woman down the aisle, conferring with TTR. The moment I turned to set eyes on my backpack, my practiced gaze outlining the dark stain on the front in painful contrast, the pungent smell greeted me. It was stronger here, and had more on it a shade of downplayed quality of a dirty cloth soaked in damp rather than the oppressive onslaught of beverage. I decided to give the worrying spell a break at last. To hell with it. I noticed the exertion of climbing had already left me panting, so I crawled slowly on the cushion to spread my bulk across. I turned the backpack over so that the wet spot went below, and pushed it up to the headpost.

I moved with agonizing slowness, adjusted my legs to guard the wound, kept my head ducked to keep the curve of the roof in the clear, and twisted around to lay supine with a final gasp of relief. My head rested on the makeshift, oversized pillow of my backpack. The spot still stank, but I was not sure if it was the vestige of the cloud built over a prolonged exposure to its source, or a fresh odour still emanating from the side of the bag buried into the seat. To my surprise, I felt like I couldn’t care less.

I fetched up a tired sigh, stretched out my legs and threaded my fingers together on my flattened belly, peering over them at the wet patch on my toe. The sandal-colored hankie looked trampled on the splotch but puffed up at the sides, giving the impression of an outsized toe. I was flexing the toe and focusing on the wet sensations on the skin underneath when I noticed the black of a head entering the compartment. I did not have to take a look or wait to hear him talk to make him out. The TTR’s voice rang out louder than before, and it was not calling out ‘tickets’ this time.

‘Will you stand up a minute?’, he said, standing just inside the entrance. I would not have had to try hard to poke out my leg and kick him in the head if I so wished.

I rolled over on my side, grasped the flat metal support and stuck my neck out to take a better look - well, after allowing my eyes to briefly graze the firm, twin assets on the way. She was still nodding her head to the music and peering out. All the others in the compartment were dead still. I could see the lone lady on the seat gulping and eyeing the TTR with alarmed eyes. Her companion slithered from behind him and hurried to her seat, her head turned pointedly away from the disturbing scene.

The old man looked up with no emotion on his wizened face. From where I looked, his eyes glistened with an unhealthy wateriness. The fist on which I thought he must have rested his chin just before the confrontation remained poised in the air, as if he was challenging the other man to bring it on. After clearing his throat audibly and swiveling his head to take a quick look at the woman who had just taken her seat, he replied in a grating, but unyielding, voice, ‘Why?’ The tone was too weak to deter the opponent.

‘Stand up, I’ll tell you,’ said the TTR, with an urging, pronounced nod, wiggling his fingers. I had a feeling he was enjoying himself.

‘Why should I stand up?’ demanded the old man.  His voice had gone up and the first trace of expression crept into his skeletal face. His eyes narrowed and a corner of his mouth angled up, signalling bored dismissal.

“Can you stand up now, or not?”

The authoritative snap in the TTR’s voice was piercing enough to shut up the chatterers in the nearby compartments. A sudden hush fell over the scene. I turned around to see how others reacted to it, but only saw blank faces fixated on the encounter. The show had earned the boobie’s attention at last.

The old man kept his eyes fixed on the other man’s face for a few seconds. He looked unperturbed. The lazy look on his face did not waver. Nobody moved and the silence seemed to stretch. Then, after sparing a murderous glance at the women to his side, he tidied up his lungi and got up.

“Walk,” said the TTR, gesturing to the other side of the coach. The old man looked around. His eyes met mine briefly. Then he was marched by the TTR out of the compartment.