Going to School
Nalwar is an unforgiving place. Like much of Northern Karnataka, it is barren, rocky, almost devoid of trees and hot and dusty throughout the year. The only thing that grows here are enormous cement factories that seem to add buildings every time one passes by enroute to Pune or Bombay from the South.
It is also the place where a young boy, looking no more than 5 boards the train one bright morning. The fact that he’s in a reserved coach seems to make no difference. He is confident in his strides up and down the aisle, finally settling down on a seat opposite me. The elderly Gujarati lady who’s the rightful occupant fumes on her return from the toilet. But the young boy’s mournful yet eager eyes speak in a manner no one can respond to harshly. So, in the time honoured Indian Railways tradition, she ‘adjusts’.
For a full five minutes, everyone just watches the boy. I suspect that everyone has the same questions of him as I - what is his name? How old is he? Why is he going to school on an express train?
The rushing wind blows his tie clip away. I pick it up and hand it back. It seems to loosen the atmosphere a bit.
“Thank you, uncal”
“It’s ok, make sure you clip it properly now”
“Yes, yes ji”
“Accha, tell me. What is your name? How old are you? You seem way too young to be traveling alone”
“My name is Aamir. I am 5 and half, uncal. I have to go to school, no? How else will I go?”
“Oh, but where is your school? Don’t your parents worry about you when traveling?”
“My mother says I have to work hard to become a big person. So I go to far school in Wadi”, he stretches his hand in the direction of the place.
“My mother told my father gone to far place. He won’t come back soon. She told I have become big and then I can meet him. So I want to become big like him, work in cement factory and become big person.”
Everyone in the bay looks on incredulously. One lady seems to be tearing up, ruining her morning mascara.
“Accha, which class are you?”
“UKG, Section 2”
Before I ask him any more questions, a burly boy twice Aamir’s age comes by and asks him to come to the next coach where the rest of his friends are.
“Uncle, if TTE comes na, tell him we went off to the last coach”, the burly boy is clearly nervous. “Else if he finds us here, he’ll hit us. Last week he hit this fellow until his hand got a cut”, pointing to Aamir’s forearm.
******
I don’t see any of them until I get off to buy breakfast at Wadi. Aamir is running ahead of everyone else trying to get away from the TTE’s swinging palms. 20 meters down the platform, he slips and goes sprawling near a idli vendor who promptly raises his hand. Aamir scampers to an escape. Waiting for the rest of his friends, he dusts off the muck on his white shirt and straightens his bag.
I wave to him. He waves back, turns and jumps off onto the tracks.
His ambitions to be a big person in a cement factory have survived another train journey.
