The proclamations were grand, a rough hue of saffron ruffled into the compartment, vivid comparisons to a world in the past came rushing back, an aftertaste which was not as romantic as the ride from Kangra Mandir to Pathankot.
My companion and I, muted by the distance and our own museums of thought, where we saw and declined, carefully considered, spending just enough time and then moving on from that exhibit were disturbed by a loud scream. A man, drunk, on what seemed like cheap, locally-brewed alcohol, screamed at seemingly no one, “I will not spare you.” Meeting deranged holy men was not something I wanted to believe I adored but the last one was I met by the tracks at Kangra was docile and narcissistic rather than volunteering to save the world.
The man with his head gear similar to those priests of the temple who sit in the periphery, always discluded in the major ceremonies, they accept the money given while they gaze at nothing (They’d like to believe that the world believe's in nihilism of life and those needless celebrations of pedestal worship) before pocketing the “dakshina” (an offering to holy men), smiling at the amount of alcohol all this money could buy, while absent mindedly muttering an odd prayer just to keep up that impression of commune which he swore to maintain.
He sat down on the wooden seats, he looked around and screamed. Pulling out my headphones, Tool, was suddenly not as interesting. I sat down, facing my companion.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Crazy man,” he replied, while making the universal sign of the demented, one finger pointing to his temple and the other pointing to the man.
The “crazy” man’s rant continued and reached a fever pitch when he stood up and slapped himself thrice, before admitting his attraction to money and how he would fight all of those who betray his god, his enemies— Jains, Parsis, Christians, Hindus or “a Musalman,” he finished, looking around, smiling menacingly.
He ranted and the two of us nervously peered out, waiting for our destination, the train would not move fast enough.
“Man, am I happy you came along. I was thinking of doing this journey alone,” I said. My companion smiled back, obviously uncomfotable.
As Pathankot neared, our crazy friend decided that money was not what mattered to him, those who are deeply spiritual need not the attraction to those red 1000 Rupee notes. But he almost stopped short of tearing his notes when he was told that Pathankot had arrived. He stopped. He justified the lack of floating pieces of the 1000 by assuring any one who would listen that he had torn millions of rupees.
He took a swig from his bottle, lugging his bag, ran into the dark platform screaming “ Pathankot Zindabad” ( Long Live Pathankot, would be a safe translation.)
He got into the platform before realizing it was not where he wanted to go. He resumed screaming. I pushed my bag further up my shoulders and running up the steep railway bridge connecting the small gauge platform to the Junction, to create as much distance between me and the man. But my companion smiled unapologetically and continued to stroll, casually looking in the direction of the priest running in circles. The priest screamed about how god had chosen him. The proximity to the unbalanced has always been a source of discomfort.
My grandfather once said, “The more you desire it, the farther it runs from you and the less you want it, it comes right back to you.”
How right you were old man. You looked down from your high heavenly perch to chuckle did you not? You always had a sense of humour.
And there it was, the man returned, just when I thought I would not encounter his kind anymore. But he was back. But this time I felt safer, the bars on the window locked him out. His delusion now made him god. He assured himself that he would not be hurt because he was god, he was death.
He lay on the dusty platform, clutching his right forearm, pitifully twisting in the filth, screaming, calling out for "Amba" (Mother). His desperate cries for his mother were laced in lunacy and pain. I felt a measure of sanity in his voice.
I saw in him a man crazed by the loss of his mother. But, I love romanticizing. Before any one could take control of the situation, he leapt onto the tracks. A gathering crowd peered to see where he was. The police managed to drag him out, into the dark platform, where a few knocks to his neck and back silenced him enough to be dragged away.
The police now started to clear all those who squatted. They however, missed one.
Guess where she made her way to?
Her veil clutched between her teeth while her other hand gripping a red vase. Her sari in a bunch, to hide the vase.
The fingers counted rosary beads. Her dull eyes stared into space. Muttering to herself. She blew air, like exhaling smoke from an expensive cigarette, relishing the twang of tobacco on her tongue. She sat facing me, staring, intently waiting for a reaction. She blew and whispered.
She believed she could call on the spirits to sit next to her and directed them to stand with her to guard her against the evil. She spat to mark the spot. All this while not five meters from my face. The others on the seats had adjusted to avoid her. But she stared at us.
"This is not your seat," I said. She nodded.
I motioned her to leave, but she refused. She rocked back and forth, eyes glazing over. Drooling from the corners of her mouth. A mad smile flashed. It was 12:30 am, my companion had abandoned me. Choosing sleep ahead of the crazy woman.
Like a rabid animal ready to strike she looked at me. I maintained eye contact, neither looking away. Each challenging the other to break, thankfully the patrons of the seat interrupted our staring match. They physically dragged her to another seat. Those seats were taken by the military.
Before she left, her eyes teared up and she looked at me, pleading for help. Self Preservation was an animal I nurtured. Sympathetic smiles and nods followed and I decided to catch some shut eye.
I dreamt about vases.
There is a sadistic pleasure which drives us to watching men hurt others. With sticks or roughed by the military. The silhouette of the police overwhelming a drunk man on a dark platform. The train officials pushing the destitute out of a moving train.
A crowd gathers and watches, some smile, others just wait for the next blow. What is this fascination with violence? To hurt and to watch some one bleed. While our crazy man lay on the tracks waiting for death, there were a few who thought it would be "entertainment" if the drama continued for a little longer.
"Enough," I said out aloud to no one. Try to sleep, I did not know there was a call I would get a 4 am. A drunk past, claiming sleeping in the train was just not right.
That is later.
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