At Udupi Railway Station

(An almost one-and-a-half-years-old diary note, dated 13th July, 2013.)

"There are no fresh starts in life, but there are always new directions".

                                                                                      -Ruskin Bond

                                                                                                   

                                                                                                           

In the somewhat unpleasant company of two scraggy and mangy dogs, a deep-seated hunger lurking in their eyes, twenty-six persons (I have counted their number thrice, mind you), lots of luggage (three bags of mine included) and a lot of mosquitoes, partly invisible in the pale light spreading in the outer veranda of the station. I am here at Udupi railway station in this inconsolable mist of a night of monsoon. Or rather, a nascent day washed clean of the grime of past days, as it is sometime after midnight. I did not check the time after alighting from the train compartment. I had made a note on my phone when I was on the train earlier, sitting all bundled up in my blankets on the lower berth, a pillow propped up against my cheeks, sending a pleasing cool sensation which kept luring me to fall into a deep slumber. I could have been asleep any instant. The train had just left Bhatkal then. I remember the time being 11:56 P.M. and thought to myself - alright, four minutes to go for the night of a new day. My birthday.

Now a birthday was not a new or an unexpected situation to have happened to me. It is, in all likelihood, an annual ritual for people. A day when a person is supposed to feel special. But this particular day happened to worm its way imperceptibly into my schedule. Certainly for the first time whilst I was travelling to someplace. Traveling alone too. At present I am seated, all hunched up on the floor, a thin worn out hostel bed-sheet beneath me. The three bags of mine (neatly locked up in chains, with a mighty lock dangling from them) provide the headrest. Getting the feel of a proper dank surface for the first time. The college campus gates will open at around 6 A.M. Till then, I have to while away my time here. And in July, how can the rains be instructed to keep on waiting? So, on it begins to pour, heavily and gaily in a swift curtain, in its famed torrential glory and persistent rage. I am not to be forewarned here. In Udupi region (to be more clear, in the entire Western Ghats bedecked with lush green vegetation) during monsoon, you can never know when it would come pouring down. An instant I would be walking on the road with a harsh sun shining brilliantly over my head. In the ensuing moments, the sky devoid of even a speck of clouds transforms into an overcast one, as if chuckling to itself, and before I know it, I am caught in a swift and heavy rain.

A melange of smells invade the surroundings. A fusion of locomotive diesel, the stale food items littered here and there, cigarettes, animals, sweat and dust, urine, soiled damp blankets, and a freshened up moist earth.

The pile of grayish white pebbles on the iron tracks, all giving off a hazy sheen. The lone bridge connecting the two platforms, with some laborers puffing contentedly on their 'beedis' for the much-needed warmth, the smoke from their lips disappearing in a thin trail. Abandoned stationary seats painted dark red, with light from the evening lamps glinting through the heavy patter of rain on them. The ends of the platform are not visible now. They seem to have mingled into the inviting dark. I come inside the shelter of the platform. No matter how desperately I want to get drenched, my brain overpowers this impulse and drags my feet back.

Suddenly, two girls in 'salwar kameez' are seen taking an urgent stroll in front of me. The need of exigency plainly evident from the tensed expression their faces wear. Plaited hairs. Almost stationary pigtails, not swinging much. Both the girls are now having a look at the Konkan Railway Train Chart displaying the arrival and departure schedules of various listed trains. One girl is dressed up entirely in pink. The other one is clad in an off-white shade. Sandals on their feet. Needless to say, they are quite a pleasant sight after all this time trying to set me to do something to kill time, knowing that sleep is an eventuality that won't happen. I have only my new but battered notebook and a ball pen (without a cap) to keep me company. Of course, I could listen to some music on my phone. But I would rather listen to and lose myself in this ancient, evanescent music which the raindrops have decided to thrum on the strings of the stretched dried patina of the wearied soil. And then the familiar unmistakable rumble of wheels makes itself heard, the iron tracks, silent, wet and glinting from the overnight rain, creaking and groaning under their weights. A train engine has pulled over.

It had to be today to be alone only with my thoughts conversing with me. It's comforting and distressing at the same time.

I have been thinking of new things of late like I always try to do but seldom make them work out in reality. Moments when dreaming becomes much more important than doing. And much more comforting. Be it reading more, learning a new language or a musical instrument, sketching, writing something meaningful, and mingling with strangers more, turning my actions and the ways of living the life (maybe bestowed upon me by a grander plan) upside down or coaxing it to take a new direction. But the self-chosen path of living your life, be it chosen inadvertently, once set, is hard to change. Influences come and go, changing you in the process. But you have not called them into your life. They haven't come at your bidding. All the time, you try to fit yourself into the perception of the person you dream of becoming. Trying to conquer the programmed order of needs and interests and desires can be so difficult. Only possible when you try to change your habits or add new ones, one day at a time with a source of infinite patience urging you on in this mystery of the living. But it is still so difficult.