by P.R.Viswanathan
[box]Here’s a story of a man and a train…“Krishna mama, as we knew him, was a thin man of medium height with a dome-like bald head, face filled with lines, less than ordinary features and to cap it all, he was lame and his eyes blinked constantly. He lived in the crowded Matunga market area. P.R.Viswanathan weaves a touching story. Read on. [/box]This time, I met Chatterbox after nearly seven years. No change whatsoever! The ageless wonder was dressed in a white lungi folded over the knees – at half-mast – topped with a white half shirt and a dot of sacred ash on his forehead. That invariably was his attire in the morning. Evenings would find him in trousers and a half-shirt with the top two buttons open, revealing a hairy chest. But I forget; this story is not about Chatterbox. We met, as I said after seven years and as usual, he updated me with all the gossip, drifting from one subject to another till finally, we were talking about Times Krishnan.
Times Krishnan was quite a character. Needless to say, he worked for Times of India and lived in Matunga, where every man was known by the organization he worked for. So we had Reserve Bank Ramanathan, Kodak Anantharaman, Killicks Srinivasan, Merwanjee Swami, Voltas Sarangan and many more such. The era I am talking about is 1950-1970.
Krishna mama, as we knew him, was a thin man of medium height with a dome-like bald head, face filled with lines, less than ordinary features and to cap it all, he was lame and his eyes blinked constantly. He lived in the crowded Matunga market area. Most of the time, he would be walking; he was obsessed with walking. His favourite line was “we must keep walking man”. “Chalna jeevan ki kahani, rukhna maut ki nishani” from Raj Kapoor’s Shri 420 might well have been written by Times Krishnan. That, about, summed up his philosophy of life.
I would see him, when I was out for a walk with my father. He would greet close friends like my father by saluting with both hands. He used four letter words casually – son of a bitch (in Malayalam) being the most common – but was entirely free of any malice. At 8.30 AM sharp, he would walk down to the Matunga Railway Station and take the 8.43 slow to VT.
Krishnan rarely talked about his job and no one bothered to ask. Friends said he worked hard at his desk up to 12.30 in the first half and from 1.30 to 5.30 in the second half. But what he did for a living was the least important part of the man. Suffice it to say he worked for the Times and his office was across the road from VT Station. That was very important, for every afternoon, he would walk across to the station a few minutes before the departure of the Madras Express and chat with his innumerable acquaintances, who were travelling on the train to Madras or onward to Kerala. He made all the right enquiries about old parents, expecting wives or daughters and student-children. Almost always, he had in his hand a parcel, which he handed over to one of the passengers with instructions for delivery at Madras or Kerala as well as details of the sender. Krishnan ran a free courier service to Madras and Kerala.
Finally, when the guard blew the whistle, in the midst of the inevitable last minute scurrying, Krishnan stood back from the crowd, erect on his good leg and saluted with both hands in the direction of the departing train.
Chatterbox had warmed up to the subject and told me of his experience of travelling once with Krishnan in the Express.
It was peak season in May and both Chatterbox and Krishnan had received an SOS from their respective homes in Kerala. On reaching VT, he saw Krishnan standing in the middle of a long queue for tickets. They chatted and then Krishnan gave him a conspiratorial wink, which meant that Chatterbox need not bother to stand in queue. When Krishnan’s turn came, he got two tickets, handed one to Chatterbox. The latter was in a somber mood partly because of the SOS from home but his immediate concern was the terrible time he was going to have in the unreserved compartment of the train. He need not have worried. The two of them got nothing less than VIP treatment. Almost every passenger seemed to know Krishnan and made place for him and his friend. For lunch, they got a bite from everyone around and by evening, the Conductor , also a friend, had found berths for both in the reserved compartments.
On the appointed day, Krishnan retired from the Times of India. At his farewell function, whatever else was said about him and his service, not a single speaker failed to mention his association with the Madras Express and wondered how he was going to manage without the daily trips to VT. Krishnan was himself at a loss. The answer came within a month of Krishnan’s retirement. The Central Railway decided that the Madras Express would thenceforth run from the newly constructed Dadar Terminus. Thus Krishnan was able to continue his affair with the train.
Only after allowing these recollections to sink, did Chatterbox, with his love of the dramatic, announce that the venerable old man had passed away last year at the age of 76. On his morning walk, he met an old friend near the Indian Gymkhana. While they were both strolling in the grounds, he suddenly went breathless. In a few minutes, it was all over. The friend consoled the family later, saying they should have no regrets. Krishnan had fulfilled all his responsibilities and above all, he died walking.
Chatterbox then spoke of Krishnan’s funeral. The Sion cemetery was packed. They all had come to say farewell to him, he, who had said so many farewells to them. And….. , I don’t know whether I should be telling you this. Chatterbox is a notorious bluff-master and I am sure it is pure apocryphal. All the same, he swore that as Krishnan’s son extended his right hand to light the pyre, the time was 2.25 PM to the second. The Dadar-Madras Express would have just commenced its journey. Seven minutes later, the train to Madras speeded past the cemetery and for no reason at all, hooted thrice in quick succession, in what Chatterbox believes, was a divinely ordained last salute to Times Krishnan.
Pic : yogendra174 – http://www.flickr.com/photos/yogendra174/
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