(Short Story)
BY C. VENKATA RAO, M.Sc.
(Lecturer, The Hindu College, Guntur)
“The most interesting feature about unexpected
things is that they do happen,” said my talkative friend drawing out his
cigarette and emitting puffs of smoke between his words. “For example, look at
my queer experience.” And he proceeded—
It was during the time of the threatened
bombardment of the East Coast by the Japanese. I was reading in the B.Sc.
Senior class at Cocanada, and all but my Chemistry practical examinations were
over. We were to appear for these at Waltair two days hence, but suddenly we
received information that our examinations were postponed sine die owing
to war scare. This news cut short my stay at Cocanada by two days. Being
suddenly and unexpectedly released from the shackles of examination, my heart
bouncing with joy. I made up my mind to take the very next train to my
home-town and spring a surprise on my parents. In this jubilant mood I boarded
the Waltair passenger, blissfully ignorant of the series of surprises that were
to be flung at me in a short span of time.
We were just a few stations from Waltair. The train
stopped at a small wayside station and looked as if it refused to move. Soon
the travellers grew restive and began to invent explanations for the unusual
delay; some said it was due to a goods train coming ahead and others that it
was military special. I added to the general mirth of the travellers in the
compartment by suggesting that the station-master was taking an untimely nap and
was thus unable to give the signal. Just then a busybody entered the
compartment and said that he was coming direct from the station-master who told
him that Vizagapatnam was being bombarded and God only knew when we might
continue our journey. Now I had to sit up and face realities. What about my
food? I was already feeling hungry, and there was no prospect of getting even a
cup of coffee at that God-forsaken place. I was alarmed at the very thought of
having to fast. I came out and saw there was a general bustle on the platform
and that bunches of plant fruits, which were rushed there by the vendors for
this emergency, were fast disappearing. There was nothing I could do under the
circumstances. “But why not try the hospitality of the station-master”, said my
inner voice. I knew he was helpless after all, and how far could his
hospitality stretch? and what obligations would he feel towards travellers? I
knew the result, but I just wanted to see the fun, because I always had a queer
feeling (in those days) towards these station-masters. I always liked to cut
jokes at them; the possession of a ticket, in my opinion, afforded me enough
immunity against any unpleasant reactions from the other side.
I was always of opinion that station-masters as a
species were cynics. Being hurled away from civilization and placed at the head
of a small colony, they have a natural tendency to develop airs of despotism. I
went to station-master’s room, prepared to receive a severe rebuff and an angry
growl at the mention of my request, but I was determined to enjoy the fun if
not his hospitality. He was absorbed in writing something and I said, in my
official way, “Good morning”. Let me tell you, by way of information, that this
phrase works like a charm with the railway officials. The most diehard
ticket-collector will melt like butter before this phrase and will give all the
information you want. With this you can also gain entry into the platform
without a platform-ticket, and, if you learn to use it skillfully, you will in course
of time become an adept and may even be able to travel without a ticket! The
station-master, under the stress of the existing circumstances, was not moved.
But I persisted. “I am coming from Cocanada”, I continued, as if that was a
piece of information of which he was urgently in need. But this seemed to have
the desired effect, because he suddenly pricked up his ears, raised his head
and peered at me through big silver-rimmed spectacles. Imagine my astonishment
when I saw that, instead of the angry growl I expected, the station-master was
actually developing a look as if he was suddenly confronted with the District
Traffic superintendent. He was all smiles and humility. He got up from his
chair, and with profuse apologies to me that the present state of emergency
prevented his leaving the station just then, he said that I could go to his
house and make myself quite at home. He led me a little way along, and pointing
to a Mangalore tiled house partly concealed behind a few portia trees he called
to a jamadar and entrusted me to his care. As usual, the station-master’s
family was watching the train from the verandah. At the sight of myself and the
jamadar, there was a sudden bustle of activity and they quickly vanished into
the house.
Now events began to shape out quite contrary to my
expectations. I whirled into an unusual environment to which I had neither the
time nor the ability to adapt myself. Though I liked to cut jokes with station-
asters, I never liked to talk with their families, and, by nature, I was very
bashful where women were concerned. But I could not help following the jamadar,
who was all courtesy towards me. A few paces from the house, I could hear the
quick shuffling of feet inside. The face of a girl appeared, like a vision, at
a window and disappeared in a flash. The jamadar took me to the
station-master’s own drawing-room and seated me upon his chair and said he
would presently arrange for my bath. I was utterly perplexed and meekly obeyed,
like one in a hypnotic state. In a few minutes, the jamadar returned and
directed me into a bath-room fully equipped with hot water, soap and towel. I
thought I was really receiving the attention worthy of a prospective
son-in-law! But my mind refused to comment on the happenings. Mechanically I finished
my bath and returned to the room, to find an array of toilet apparatus spread
on the table. My surprise was slowly mounting to dream-like bewilderment. I was
feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I was in the process of toileting when I
heard the murmur of feminine voices in the adjoining room. Very soon the sweet
voice of a girl came out in rapturous melodies, to the accompaniment of the veena.
I was enchanted with the music and was wondering how even a small wayside
station could have the potentialities of romance usually expected in cities and
cinema films. In due course the melodies melted away and the curtain behind me
rustled. Imagine my surprise when I beheld a sweet little thing, probably the
station master’s daughter, slowly approaching my table with a plate of iddlis.
She was the very picture of enchantment, dressed in a blue silk saree and
jacket to match. Her sudden entry and my natural bashfulness prompted me to
stand up, but she was already at my table and with a sweet little smile she
deposited the plate on the table and said, “Please help yourself.” She did not
dash out, but just lingered long enough to let me have a clear look at her. I
knew college girls are a bit forward, but I could not imagine that they would
be so even within the precincts of their parental home. I could not also divine
the reason for the station-master’s wife sending her on this business, when
there was the jamadar to do her bidding. I was too hungry to discuss the pros
and cons, and very soon I took to helping myself exactly according to the
dictates of the girl. In a short while the girl reappeared with coffee in a
silver cup, which she daintily placed on the table, standing a little way from
it. From her appearance and way of addressing me previously, I knew she was from
a high school or college, and her attitude in tarrying there now was a positive
invitation to me to converse. But I could not muster courage to address her; my
voice failed and my vocabulary seemed to run dry. I had also a suspicion that
we were the targets of a few pairs of eyes peering from behind the ramparts. I
could not even bold to look at her straight; I was simply viewing her through
the corner of my eye, literally drinking in her beauty with every sip of
coffee. I was wondering whether there was some conspiracy in the whole affair
or whether it was a case of mistaken identity, when I heard the footsteps of
the station-master outside. He came in a hurry and told me that the train was
to leave shortly as the ‘all clear’ was sounded at Vizagapatam. “We would have
been more glad if you could have spent some more time with us,” he said
apologetically, as though he was anticipating my arrival all the time and had
been prepared for it. I got up and walked out briskly and was too confused to
express my thanks or apologies. From behind I heard the station-master speak
about my father, and something else which I could not quite catch. I boarded
the train just as it whistled and began to move. I saw from my compartment that
the station-master’s family were still watching me with interest. The ‘all
clear’ was sounded at Vizagapatam, but it had not yet sounded for me.
With my mind still dazed with this romantic
experience, I came home in the full expectation that my untimely arrival would
cause a flutter of surprise among the members of my family. But the very first
sentence my father uttered on my arrival put the lid on the mystery more
tightly. “So you have seen the girl,” he began, “but we shall talk about it
afterwards. First have your food, for you must be feeling awfully hungry.” Far
from it; I was feeling awfully mystified. Surprises were hitting me hard like
bullets. I wondered how my father suddenly developed the clairvoyant vision so
as to know all that had happened to me on the way.
While I was slowly finishing my meal, my mother
narrated the whole story which unraveled the mystery. The station-master, it
would seem, was a distant relation who had seen me previously, though I did not
know him. He offered his daughter (by his second wife) in marriage to me, and
my father practically fixed up the alliance but formally wanted me to see the
girl and ‘approve’. He therefore, wrote to me to alight at the station on my
way to Waltair for my examinations, and had informed the station-master
accordingly. So they were all under the impression that everything had gone on
according to their plan. But the letter my father wrote never reached me, as I
had started earlier. This accident was the cause of all my surprises. The ‘all
clear’ was really sounded for me the next day when I received my father’s
letter redirected from Cocanada.