The Woman at the Station

Short Story with Moral Lesson – The Woman at the Station

The Woman at the Station – Short Story with Moral Lesson

It’s amazing how every day we come across so many different people but there are a few who just leave a mark in our memory forever. No matter what or how long our experience with them was, it tends to stay with us forever.

This particular incident happened a few years back.  I was on a train from Delhi to Lucknow to visit a family friend. It’s about 10 hours of journey including the station halts in between.  It would have been around 8 in the morning when I arrived the crowded New Delhi Railway Station.

The train was scheduled to depart at 8:20 am but running late is one of the most prominent feature of Indian rails. To sum it up, I had about an hour spare at the station before the train actually left for Lucknow.

For those who haven’t had many journeys via Indian trains, let me tell you, waiting at the station can be particularly amusing if you just look around.

It wouldn’t be hard to find a family going on a vacation, two to three middle aged men( chacha, foofa etc etc) ,their better halves and about half a dozen squealing little kids. There always would be that eldest kid(yet in his/her teens) busy with the iPod or the cell trying his/her level best pretending not to be a part of the nuisance. One of the women would be constantly nagging about the train being late or the fact they should have hired cabs instead and meanwhile the uncles would be busy either checking the tickets, rechecking them and maybe rechecking them once again.

Then you would always find a guy leaving for his college and about half of his family there to see him off. The mother crying and still stuck to the idea that he should have continued studying somewhere ‘near’. I know you would say,’ hey that’s not amusing, the lady just loves her kid’ , but trust me after seeing the same scene run over and over again, it does get a bit funny.

Anyhow this is not what the story is about. The people in this story were different, it probably would be difficult to generalize them coz’ they weren’t. So, getting back to that day, I was at the New Delhi Railway station waiting for my train to Lucknow. It was the month of December and the mornings in Delhi do get chilly. I was sitting on a berth sipping from hot cup of tea and looking around at the ‘usual’ crowd.

“What’s your name?”

the question just hammered my ears and for a moment I felt as if it was addressed to me. I turned around to see an old lady of about 65 was interrogating a middle aged coolie. What would she do knowing his name, that was the first question that came to my mind and was answered just the next moment.

“Asif”, replied the coolie. He would have been about 40; thick beard, no mustache and his hair had a tint of whiteness in them.

“What? You are a Muslim! Leave it! Leave my bag…” the old lady erupted suddenly.

She looked like a typical Indian woman, white-gray hair, bulky, just like any other grandmother.  Not to mention her being a Hindu was clarified by her response to the coolie’s name. She was carrying two bulky bags which she managed to drag to a berth nearby and sat there.

There was something strange about her as if she was suspicious of everyone around. Her eyes were constantly wondering around the station and she was particularly cautious of anyone in a Muslim’s attire. It wasn’t hard to figure out she was one of those people who still couldn’t stand the notion of India being a secular nation.

There was a part of me that felt sorry for the coolie. I was constantly looking at him. He was past his age of crying but there was a pain in his eyes that was evidently visible. It was not much time before he disappeared into the crowd.

My thoughts about the incident were disrupted by the arrival of the train. I picked up my bag and boarded the train. I wouldn’t say it was a shock but a surprise when I found that the old lady from the platform had the seat next to me. She still had that suspicious look about everyone around.  After the incident with the coolie on the platform she looked a bit restless.

The train started and soon was catching up pace when suddenly the woman stood up. She seemed disturbed. She was looking around for something.

“Oh god! I left my purse at the station”, she said with a choked voice.

I tried to calm her down but both of us knew that there was hardly any chance of getting the purse back.

“There was a really costly ring in it.”, she told me.

“Don’t worry aunty; you could file a complaint at the next station.” I replied.

“I knew something wrong would happen as soon as that Muslim touched my bag. The ring was for my daughter’s wedding.”

“It’s not his fault; he was just trying to make his living.” I replied though I knew she wouldn’t understand me.

“You don’t understand kid; I’ve seen a lot more world than you. I’ve seen the time of partition, though I was small but I still remember how these Muslims killed the Hindus in Lahore.” she replied with a sudden mix of anger and hatred in her voice.

I knew I had touched a dark corner of her life and didn’t want to take the topic further. That was the last thing I heard from the lady ever.

I’ve never been fond of awkward silences and this one was on the top of the list. There was a battle going on within me trying to decide whether what the woman’s hatred was justified or not. A part of me felt sad for her as it wasn’t hard to figured out she had lost someone close at the time of partition. On the other hand I knew there was bloodshed from both the sides and now we had come a long way ahead and needed to put those things in the past and move forward.

Its strange how time flies by when you’re in deep thought. I felt the train stop. It was the next station. The woman stood up along with her luggage; probably she was getting off the train at this station. I thought of helping her, so I stood up and followed her.

As soon as I got off the train, I saw a familiar face running towards us. It took me a while to recognize him but finally I came across and knew it was Asif, the coolie from the boarding station.

“Khaala, khaala”, he shouted trying to grab the woman’s attention.

He came towards us, stood there for a minute trying to catch his breath. He then said,

“I tried to catch the train at the previous station itself but couldn’t, I knew if I would take the road I would reach this station on time. I found this purse on the station and recognized it being yours. Here it is.”

“Please check it if everything is in there.”, the coolie said with a hoarse voice.

He handed over the purse to the lady and walked off. It took me a while to realize what just happened. The whistle blew. I got back onto the train but I could see the woman. Her over cautious attitude was nowhere to be seen now. She stood there looking one by one at her purse and the coolie walking away from her. I could see the remorse on her face. She never checked the purse for her ring. It was as if she knew it was there, it had to be there.  Tears of guilt were now trickling down her eyes. She took off her glasses, wiped her tears off. Soon she got out of my sight.

I came back to my seat knowing very well that I was never going to forget what I experienced that day. I was not going to forget the ‘Hindu’ woman and the ‘Muslim’ coolie from the station and neither was I going to forget the India that I came across on that particular day.

It’s been over 5 decades but the hatred still resides in many hearts. The wounds still, are deep and hurt. But some gestures like the one by the coolie keep the hopes alive, there would be a day when every ‘woman at the station ‘ would finally realize that it’s been a really long time since we’ve been carrying that hatred in our hearts and finally it’s time to move on…

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