Now that the hunger has subsided, let’s get down into the stream of consciousness. Travelling in train in the month of July is something I don’t think I have ever done before. And now as I sit in the sparsely populated 2-tier compartment, with people still devouring the depths of a slumber which eludes them during their mundane daily lives, I have finally gathered enough mettle to jot things down.
I would have loved to do it with a pen on real paper. But oh the spoilings of technology. That reminds me he had asked me yesterday about keeping a pen along with me. It had happened while I was giving finishing touches to my packing. It was a question that I had let gone unanswered. I guess it is Murphy at work all over again. I felt the need of exactly that what I had not bothered to pack.
Getting back to travelling in train during monsoons. Its certainly bliss. Especially if you have caught on to enough sleep during the dark hours to wake up at day break. The view from the window is serene. It is all green to the last inch of horizon. The air is cool and fresh and the entire nature seems to be on a weekend mode. Spring definitely is the weekend for nature.
There are the freshly ploughed fields with soil which is not caked but looks beautifully dark after being washed by a night pour. Then there are certain fields which are done with sowing and tiny plants have started to emerge from earth’s surface. Some of them probably celebrating the days when they finally witnessed the sky. They remind me of my own back at home. I am the careless mother to them who are being tended to with utmost love by their father. Yes, of the two of us he is the one with the green thumb. All I do is breath in their freshness and greenness that too for my own comfort.
This journey is turning out extremely blissful. With the company of a heart-warming book I have a vast expanse of green carpet laid outside the window. As the trees run past many things crop up in my head and all of them barely make their presence felt. It seems like a melee of thoughts but a happy one if something like that is even there.
I look at the tiny bird which is flapping its windows with all his might trying to soar to better heights. Then there are those stray skeletons of dwellings standing little away from the tracks which often make me wonder about their stories. There are those huge electronic grids the rows of which go till the horizon. And those hidden shrines and ruins of some small temple hidden beyond the dense wilderness.
All this raises just one urge inside of me and that is to know about their stories. Stories of those farmers who have ploughed all those fields, about those who used to dwell in those abandoned, ruined dwellings and about the million others who walk those small muddy roads, who live beyond the small stations beyond which I cannot see. I wish someone could tell me. I wish Ruskin Bond could tell me.