Kachori
Patherdih. A wasteland like most of Jharkhand’s coal belt. People wear grim expressions, their eyes hiding years of sorrow, neglect and lost hope. The enormous freight yard lies disused and derelict; once proud semaphores droop; wagons and coaches rust amongst the overgrowth. The nearby washery has had its asbestos roofing ripped apart for scrap. Kids, runny nosed, half naked from the nearby village run on the dirt road, their feet flicking dust and flies.
Patherdih smells of death. Of dying.
The guard whistles and the ramshackle train heaves itself off the platform. I had come here in search of Rupa. In search of some lost signals of hope that she would be alright. That she wouldn’t be hauling those coal sacks. And eating mud.
I hadn’t found her. Nor was I going to.
Instead I made friends with Santosh and Raj Kishore.
10 they said they were. They were running away from home because both their fathers beat them regularly and were fed up. “I need to stand up for myself”, says handsome, intense Santosh. His khakhi shirt caked with mud and coal, is open to his belly. “Buttons is for losers, I am a hero. Real heroine hero ka hero like film.” Raj Kishore is more circumspect. “He’s always been my best friend. I didn’t want to run away, but he promised me a kachori at the end of the first day, so I came.” A indignant cross appears on Santosh’s face.
Small and nimble, they effortlessly move amongst the crowd of the coach. Smiling. Begging.
10 minutes later, they are back. “How much did you make?”, I ask. “Oh, enough for some samosas and chai”, says Raj Kishore.
Screeching brakes announe the arrival of Santaldih, the more decrepit cousin of Patherdih. Much to my surprise, the boys jump off here. “We’ll roam this town and take the evening passenger to Adra”, says Santosh.
That ever present beam of a smile on both their faces saying goodbye.
