It must have been during our third year in engineering that Suraj and I went to Anand to attend a Spic-Macay meeting at the Institute of Rural Management, Anand (IRMA). We got into one of several trains that passed by Surat on their way to Ahmedabad. I remember we reached Anand by about 11am and were hajaar impressed by the IRMA campus, and more importantly, the food that was served in the hostel mess for lunch. I have no recollection of what happened at that meeting but that's fair enough, I guess.
The meeting ended by late afternoon and we took an auto rickshaw to the Anand station. The queue at the ticket counter and the crowd on the platform should have given me some premonition of what would happen later, but I was twenty then and didn't care much about anything really. Suraj and I were more excited about IRMA, in fact. Not a bad choice for post-graduate studies if we didn't make it to the tier-1 MBA institutes. Of course, we were not too kicked by the rural management part of the whole thing, however, they seemed to have good placements. Moreover, the campus was great, there were real women on campus and the mess was wonderful. What more could two twenty-year olds ask for?
We were still thinking through the scenarios when we felt the mood change on the platform. There was palpable tension, a feeling of anticipation like a batsman taking guard at the wicket. I took a deep breath of air, straightened my shoulders, patted the jhola on my back to check that it was still there, balanced my body with a slight hunch while glancing at my Lotto shoes that gave me a competitive advantage and prepared for the assault. The train had not yet slowed down when two opposing forces began their battle at the doors. There were men and women, mostly men actually, seeking to alight from the train who were met by a thicker wall of those that wanted to pierce their way into the train. I must admit that I used my height and thick head to good advantage and managed to breach the fortress. As I paused to catch my breath, I looked around for a status check on Suraj. Suraj, if I haven't mentioned it earlier, was six feet and three inches tall (the same height as Amitabh Bachchan, he never failed to remind us) and reasonably well built. He was using his long hands and longer legs to good use, scaring everyone into submission. Within minutes, the train jerked and began chugging along. We were inside the train, without loss of limb or respect.
As the train picked speed, so did the sound levels in the compartment. We were standing somewhere in between the toilets and the doors, sharing the space with about thirty others. Some were in deep conversation, some were trying to park their backsides at the same place where they were vertical earlier, some others were opening their bags for assorted eatables and chewables, a few even chose to use the anonymity of the situation to pass wind. Such an environment did not deter Suraj and me from continuing our discussions about career options and male-female ratios in each of those options. Baroda, about forty minutes later, however, had better exit to entry ratio, and we were able to make our way to the other door for some fresh air.
The sun had decided it had had enough for the day as the train pulled out of Baroda, and was on its way out. When one of the passengers mentioned that the platform at the only other stop would be on the other side, we promptly sat down at the door, with our feet on the steps. We were wearing jeans, so it didn't matter how dirty the floor was: jeans were designed for such use only. The cool breeze was exhilarating as was the feeling that our career plans were falling into place. One hand held the handle while the other contributed to the animated discussion that we continued. Villages passed by and so did a couple of culverts. The train swerved suddenly on a few occasions and we hung on for dear life, but all in all, we had the best seats in the train.
One doesn't realize how time passes by when you are young and more so with a friend; we had left behind Ankleshwar and were about half an hour away from Surat, home to our engineering college and hostel. It was reasonably dark now, a bit chilly and, I must admit, slightly scary. It's easy to sit at the door during the day, hearing the wheels grind the rails and seeing poles whizz by; at night, it's a different matter. Not only are the senses dulled by the harmonic motion of the train, there was also a general sense of quiet within the compartment, with loud conversations having given way to whispers, yawns and surprise, even snoring. I was getting a bit restless now and was ready to get off the train and stretch the legs. I could see a few lights in the distance and perhaps the outline of a few houses. We were close to Surat but not nearly there, I said to myself, when a platform appeared. On our side.
My right foot which was resting on the middle step made contact with the platform with an upward jerk. The train continued speeding, unaware of the predicament my foot found itself in. For about twenty or thirty feet, I was too shocked to react, then survival instinct kicked in. I pulled my foot, sheathed in size ten Lottos, inwards first, disengaged it from the platform and then twisting it sideways pulled it up to the top step, just above the platform to give company to the left. The nameless station passed by.
Wild pain in the foot succeeded wild panic in the mind. I must have uttered several four letter words causing Suraj to take notice (he, by the way, had kept his long legs out danger's way by keeping them close to himself). In seconds, before I could even reply to Suraj, I felt my right foot missing. I mean, I could not feel it. My leg entered the shoe and danced with infinity. "I can't feel much... am like comfortably numb, man!" I assured Suraj. "Cool! By the way, did you know that there's a Pink Floyd song called Comfortably Numb?" said he, perhaps in an attempt to divert my attention. In those days, almost blasphemously, I hadn't discovered Time or most of the Floyd classics and knew them only as Another Brick in the Wall. And I didn't particularly care, at that time, for an education.
Luckily, Surat did arrive ten minutes later and with Suraj's help, I limped my way to an auto. Suraj, ever the practical guy, suggested that we should see a doctor before we reached the hostel. He remembered that there was a bloke near the college gate whom he had consulted in the first year and whose clinic stayed open late. Doctor Something Shah, when we reached his abode a little later, suggested I put some Iodex and went to sleep, 'everything be alright tomorrow, young boy'. Next morning did not bring much cheer and we went back to Dr. Shah. He reluctantly advised me to get an X-Ray done at a nearby setup, gave it a dismissive glance and wrote me a prescription of two tablets for three days.
Two weeks passed. The swelling of the foot reduced but did not go away. There was an occasional shooting pain when I put pressure on the right foot. But I was going home soon to Bombay for study holidays, so I just did not bother. Copying the syllabus for the exams and photocopying notes from my friends kept me busy for a few days. My slight limp did not escape my father's attention, though, when I reached home. "I slipped in bathroom and fell," I explained - the train story might read well in a book, not with parents. A visit to the orthopedic in the neighborhood was suggested and complied with. I showed him the X-Ray and the prescription.
"There is a clear hair-line fracture visible in the X-Ray," the ortho said. "This could not have been caused by slipping and falling," he clarified unnecessarily. "And, these medicines are for malaria," he concluded.
This is the second in a series of stories from and about train journeys. Other similar stories can be found here.