Operation Katpadi

by Dr.Aravind Menon K

[box]Hāsyam | A man on train meets yet another man, whom he finds a very interesting personality to observe. In a story that embodies the rasa, Hāsyam (Humour), Aravind Menon takes us on an interesting journey marked by interesting observations of a curious traveller. In the end, there’s a little message too. Here’s something to make you smile.[/box]

With great difficulty, I peeped through the sambar-stained window pane. The caterpillar-like train spat out thick black smoke and I figured out that it was moving towards a faint yellow-coloured board in the distance. Ah! A station approaching, I smiled to myself. My tummy made humble grumbles to let out its frustration and though my rectum made significant efforts to back it, I pressed myself hard against the seat in order to not let it out. I had faced many an embarrassment due to this.  Though there were just two of us in my six-seated cabin, I could not take a risk as my co-traveller was a lady, a young lady to be precise. The yellow colour board was now nearer. What was it? Kapada? What a name! A place named Kapada? Is it Kadapi? Of course, there is Cuddapah that I had read about in Social Sciences during school but Kadapi? Must be Kapadi.  I peeped out again. After making yet another failed attempt to use my pathetic knowledge of the Hindi alphabet, I read the English version out loud. Katpadi Junction. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past four. Perfect time for a couple of samosas and the ‘so-called-tea’ of the Indian Railways. The seat in front of me was empty and understandably, I converted it into a comfortable rest-place for my aching feet. Even as I rested thus, I wondered who would come in to play spoilsport. The train came to a halt. I got down and looked to the left and then to the right. There were neither samosas nor a tea stall to be seen. My tummy hurt again and I had to relieve myself of, well, you know what. Quickly reconciling from the discomfort and disappointed at samosas and tea eluding me, I started walking towards the train when a man in red shirt turned up.

“Sir, tea?”

I nodded.

I handed him a ten-rupee note.

“Change, Sir?” Bloody lizard. He wanted change for ten rupees too?

“No change Sir. Ek aur tea?”

My nasty look must have given him the impression that I had started giving ‘adjectives’ to even his great grandfather’s secret wife. He at once put his hand into his shirt pocket and took out 10 to 15 five-rupee coins. I looked at him again as if he had just run off with my sister. In reply, he gave a wide grin from which I understood even the brand of paan masala he used.

I sipped a mouthful of the liquid from the paper cup. What in the world was that? It tasted a bit like Horlicks, a bit like sugar concentrate, even like ayurvedic syrup. To be precise, it had the taste of many liquids but tea. Without spilling a single drop, I placed the paper teacup inside the trash bin. Tired of the ordeal, I got into the train.

Now, this was the last thing I wanted for the day. Mr. Spoilsport had arrived. I sat opposite him and removed my sandals. He stared at my feet and smiled.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head, smiled wider and immediately looked out.

How did this man know about what was going on in my mind? The train gave a hoot and started. My feet’s enemy was still staring out of the window, like a kid enjoying his first train ride. I guessed he would be in his mid-thirties, or early forties. Of course, I definitely looked younger than him. He wore a cream-coloured kurta. A cloth bag lay carelessly on his lap. My first impression of him was that of a literary figure, his short beard adding strength to my assumption. His eyes were still set upon the countryside that raced outside. I avoided looking into his face directly, preferring to observe him closely through the corner of my eyes. I wondered how long he would continue this exercise of his but soon found out he had other things to do too. After about ten minutes of ‘enjoying nature’, he took out a book and started reading. It didn’t seem like a novel of any kind; rather, it looked like an old diary. He had his glasses on now. As though looking out through his side of the window, I surveyed his facial features. Must be a college lecturer, I thought, and the diary ought to be his notes. I wanted to ask him badly, but thought of not disturbing him from his engrossed reading. After about 15 minutes, he again started his ‘nature’ exercise. Would he be a geologist? Even I looked outside just like him. All I could see was an uninteresting landscape replete with dry vegetation including small shrubs here and there. Or was he a scientist? Would he be thinking about some solution to a problem in his diary? Yes, he did look brainy. Uh, how I hated physics in my school!

One hour passed. I wanted to talk to him badly. But he did not even bother to look at me. Was this normal for a social being? What was that he was reading about? My curiosity was crossing its limits. Was there anything queer about him? Yes. He behaved in an odd way. Too preoccupied with his work, and avoiding me deliberately. His beard though short, evoked a little fear within me. I would have shared minimum five to ten posts in Facebook that read “All bearded men are not terrorists” yet there was something within me that made me begin to doubt him.

Two hours passed. Suddenly, to my surprise, he got up and walked away. Should I follow him? I looked at the others in my cabin. None of them seemed to bother. I looked at his seat. No.11. The white cloth bag caught my eye. The bag, yes, the bag. He walked away just like that leaving the bag there? Now, my heart started pounding. The bag certainly had something inside it; the rounded bulge spoke for it. My legs were growing restless, my bladder was getting full. Should I report to the Railway Police? The memories of an old Bollywood movie where the hero saves a train and its people thus, started running in my mind. Fifteen minutes elapsed. Yes, I knew things were not good. I made up my mind. Gathering all the courage left in me, I got up. Just as I took my second step, Mr. Nature Lover came in. We stood face to face. He smiled at me. I smiled back. Should I talk? But he did not wait, he sat and took out his book. To avoid embarrassment, I simply walked out of the cabin as if I were heading to the toilet.

After five to ten minutes, I came back and sat down. The man was writing something now. Or was he drawing? What could it be? I stood up as if to straighten myself to get a peek. He leaned back immediately as though he understood my intentions. He smiled once again. I smiled back. He was drawing. Was it a map? Was he doing a survey of the train earlier? What was he planning? My eyes were set on the big bulge in his bag. He still evaded conversation with me. I was reluctant too, thinking it would be impolite to disturb a man preoccupied with his work. I traced his hand movements. He was making crosses. Then he drew something, long lines and short lines in between. Then two circles. My god! Indeed, it seemed like a map. This man was certainly one among ‘those’. He started writing something. He wrote about two to three lines, folded the paper and held it between his fingers. He peeped out. The train was slowing down, a station, I guessed. He got up. To my surprise, he left his bag behind and started moving out. I grew nervous. My idiotic co-passengers were too busy to notice all this. I decided it was time to act. With all my courage, I went behind him.

“Excuse me Sir, your bag.”

“Huh?”

“Your bag, you left your bag there.”

“I just came to wash my face, brother. How did you know I’m getting down here?”

“I… err.. I guessed.”

“Thank you.”

I wanted to ask his whereabouts. But there was some inhibition within me that stopped me from continuing the conversation. Just to make sure that he did not escape leaving his bag behind, I waited alongside him until he went back and picked his bag.

Should I ask him? It’s not impolite to do so. Just ask him casually, I told myself. The train came to a halt.

“Err…Sir, are you a writer or a geologist?” Of course, I could not ask him whether he was a terrorist.

He gave a wide smile and handed me the piece of paper that he had between his fingers. He got down and disappeared into the crowd. It was the same paper in which he drew the map and marked places with X. My eyes widened. I unfolded it slowly. There were two horizontal lines, two vertical ones and x and 0s within them. He had been playing the X and 0 or the tic-tac-toe game. Below it were these hand-written words:

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. But sadly for curiosity, brother, there is no cure.”

I felt as if I were a seven-year-old made to strip for an injection. With a gentle whistle, I went and sat quietly in my seat. My feet took to the empty seat in the front. Though his words had thrown a rotten egg at my face, I liked them. He must be a writer, I guessed. May be a nature writer. Or could he be a geologist afterall? Could be a lecturer too, there was nothing to suggest otherwise. Or what if he was a terrorist afterall and I had spoiled his plan for the day?

Aravind Menon is a doctor by profession who likes to keenly follow his passion for creative writing. His works have been published in The Hindu Openpage and in online magazines like The TeenMag.

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