Railway stations terrified Lucky. It was because of those stories her grandmother had put in her head when she first travelled to Calcutta from Dhaka with her father. “There are kidnappers everywhere. If they snatch you, no one will ever see you again.” As they navigated the crowds at Howrah station, Lucky had held her father’s hand with all the strength her six-year-old self could muster. Or perhaps it was the collective trauma of every Bengali who lived in Dhaka during the Liberation War. Trains left the city with anguished families fleeing ancestral lands. When the carriages returned, they were filled with their butchered bodies.
This morning, Lucky was holding on to her daughter so tightly that the child started to whimper. Samar, carrying his own suitcase, was following the coolie. Against the heaving tide of bodies, clasping Tina to her bosom and staying close to her husband, Lucky kept an unwavering eye on her son. The North East Express was rolling into the platform as they descended the stairs.
Amol reconfirmed the coach and berth numbers with the coolie. When they found their seats occupied, the man took it upon himself to ask the chancers to move on. Lucky slipped him an extra ten rupees.
“Samar, occupy your seat,” she instructed her son. “Amol, spread the luggage out a bit, please.”
When two men, mercifully Bengalis, took the berths opposite, Lucky wasn’t displeased. They were not very much older than thirty, she thought, and one of them, with a headful of black hair and a roguish moustache, was quite attractive. They appeared to be seasoned travellers, making themselves comfortable even in that rush. Deftly, they changed into fresh pyjama-kurtas and pulled out rubber slippers from their shoulder bags. One of them ordered tea for Lucky and Amol, and despite Lucky’s protests, a cold drink for Samar. The other fished out a Cadbury’s chocolate bar from his bag and smiled at Tina. Seeing Lucky about to object again, he said that he had a little girl of the same age and missed her during his incessant travels.
“We are medical representatives, Dada,” he said to Amol. “Lots of travel. We hardly get home before we are out again.”
Half an hour later, a couple, definitely not Bengalis, came up to their berths and demanded that the two men leave. The men apologised and immediately got up. Amol and Lucky were surprised.
“These are not your seats?”
“No,” one of them replied, embarrassed. “We were to take yesterday’s train, but couldn’t make it because of work.”
“Sit with us,” Lucky told them. “We’ll adjust.”
The train did not depart for another four hours. No one knew why, but everyone had an explanation, from fellow passengers to the coolies and hawkers to the ticket checker who had heard that the driver had attended a wedding the previous night and overslept. They would be on their way as soon as he showed up. “When will he show up?” someone asked. The checker looked heavenwards.
Samar was walking the platform with Tina on his shoulders. While happy to see her son pay his sister some attention, Lucky kept worrying that the train might suddenly start.
“Samar, ei Samar,” she yelled through the grilled windows. “Don’t go too far.”
“Let him be, Lucky,” Amol said, placing a calming hand on her knee. “You can see him through the window. He’s not going far.”
Samar is still angry with me, Lucky thought. But did I have a choice?
She understood why Rizu’s father had taken his son away. It had broken her heart and Samar was clearly in anguish, but the man was just protecting his son. And she was doing the same for Samar, getting him out of this wretched city to ensure his safety.
She was conflicted about leaving Leela behind – no, she felt terribly guilty. That too, in a hurriedly arranged girls’ hostel. Poor thing. But as soon as Samar was placed in a school, Lucky and Tina would return.
“Ma Kamakhya, look after my family for the next few weeks. I will come to your door as soon as I am back. I promise. And,” Lucky added an afterthought to her prayer, “look after Rizu, wherever he is.”
It was early afternoon when the train finally departed. Lucky brought out red plastic plates for lunch from the day bag. She insisted the two young men join them.
Amol was humming softly as Lucky handed him a plate of parotas and aloor dom.
“Do you sing, Dada?” one of the men asked.
“A little,” he smiled.
“That is not the voice of just any singer, sir. I come from a family of classical musicians.”
“Then I should shut up. I just sing folk songs.”
“And are they not bound in the same seven notes as classical music?” Lucky interjected, mildly irritated by her husband’s unending diffidence.
“Correct. I absolutely agree.” Turning towards her, the man smiled. “This food reminds me of my mother. I have not had such soft porotas since Ma died.”
“Oh, these were prepared in a rush,” Lucky replied, pleased.
“Don’t mistake her for a housewife, Mister.” It was Amol’s turn to intervene. “My wife runs Guwahati’s most successful student coaching centre.”
The plates were soon wiped clean and the men headed towards the door for a smoke. Lucky put her head against the window and, with one hand on Tina, who was sleeping beside her, shut her eyes.
The stress of hurried packing and the unpleasantness of the railway station behind her, Lucky felt herself beginning to relax. Swaying with the motion of the train, a few errant strands of hair blowing against her face, she even allowed a bit of optimism to creep in.
Perhaps this was all for the best, she thought. A big city, that is what Samar needs to discard his small-town outlook. School, then college. He’s not coming back.
Excerpted with permissions from Red River: A Novel, Somnath Batabyal, Context/Westland.