Bombay-Bharuch

I wrote this piece as part of a class assignment… I got a little dreamy whilst writing this, so forgive my over-sentimentality if you detect any.

I’m on my way to Jhagadia, a small village in the block district of Bharuch in Gujurat. I’ve never been to Modi-land before and I feel a little apprehensive; the riots of 2002 and the few movies that followed left a deep discomfort in my mind.

I have volunteered to travel the 355km distance from Bombay to visit a Children’s Home for Tribal girls, where I will be conducting a Needs Assessment. Needs Assessment, an all time favourite word in the NGO world! I’m unemployed, in need of adventure and looking for work. So why not make a combination of it all?

Mumbai Central- the station I get my passenger train is filled with all types of people, although the majority are male. I can hear a garble of languages, and I’m not sure if it’s a dialect of Hindi or Gujurati or mix of both, for all I know it could be Urdu. It’s a fascinating scene of dress and colour; crisp white pyjamas, bright chiffon saris, knitted skull caps, stark black bhurkhas and what not. My mind takes me back to the Hindu-Muslim conflict and wonders how frightful this same journey must been not so long ago. But it seems like things have changed, if only superficially. Faces don’t look fearful. A sense of the all forbearing Indian train camaraderie settles in as the train starts moving, and I turn my thoughts to the world passing by.

I am engulfed by a childlike feeling of excitement, having got the window seat, and almost wanting to stick my hand out to feel the July rains. The scenery constantly changes as the train moves from city to town to village, concrete to huts to green fields. I can’t recognise the trees nor all the kinds of fields I pass, but nonetheless it’s all a beautiful palate of green shades. For a city girl like me, this is a feast. The monsoons transform a parched land into a blanket of lush beauty.

I can see farmers, men and women, working the fields, going about their day. I try to imagine myself doing that kind of work and it all appears very fantasy –like. It’s the kind of picture that makes you want to give up the city and move a thousand miles away only to live a basic existence. But the train keeps moving from town to village reminding me of how difficult it would be to give up the urban.

The old man sitting by my side throughout this time keeps to himself. And I think, finally someone who can leave me, to me. I’m not keen on small talk on journey that is for the most part, quite pleasant. But my impression of this seemingly nice old man changes as my journey draws to an end. Half an hour before the train reaches Bharuch, my stop, the man stretches across me and with a good portion of gusto, spits out the paan he’d been chewing. A little of this red mix of saliva and betel nut ricochets off the bar and lands on the window sill, exactly where I was resting my hand. Eewww! This shouldn’t be surprising, and yet I think, why god why? Why are we a race of such despicable filths! I do the only think I can think of, move away from the window and pretend this hasn’t affected me, all the time fighting the urge to scream.

I’m in a dilemma. I can’t seem to pucker up the courage to tell him of his wrong. For one he’s older and the other, my Hindi is inadequate to politely say what needs to be said. And so I leave it. My experience with most older people tells me that you can’t change something that has been reinforced in one’s mind for decades.

So I focus on my destination, my search for other adventures. Ones that will hopefully, hold more pleasant moments.