I have had to travel long distances by train, often in second class compartment. Though each journey has been an experience in its own way, what comes to my mind when I think of it all is an incident on the Bombay Mail. I took the train after attending a relative's marriage in Madras. During those days, it used to leave the city very late in the night and reach Bombay in the wee hours of the second day. Almost 30 hours of the journey was through the hot Andhra Pradesh belt. I got into my compartment. It was full. Everyone had more or less settled in for the night. The train had hardly picked up momentum before the ticket collector was done with his work and the lights were off. The next morning people were up early. Some time later, a small group gathered in the cubicle, where I occupied a corner seat. They seemed to be representatives of a reputed pharmaceutical company and were on the way to Bombay for a conference. Their incessant discussion was interesting. They spoke about the new medicines introduced in the market, "territories" conquered, greedy decision-makers who had to be appeased with gifts, egotistic doctors... In between, they doled out advice to anyone who cared to listen on antibiotics, general health, tonics, vitamin tablets and the like. Soon, they began to sing. One of them had a mouth organ. An inverted bucket served as a drum. A couple of them had such good voices that I was tempted to tell them that they would have shined as musicians as well. There were occasions when some passengers sent in requests for their favourite songs and said "once more". They rendered not just film songs but bhajans as well. Then a mimic took over. He imitated Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee in chaste Hindi. Then it was M Karunanidhi's turn. By evening, they felt the need for a cold beer. They knew the watering holes along the way. When the train stopped at a junction, two of them got down, jumped the railway fence, and ran to a liquor shop. They were soon back with beer and more. While I was finishing my dinner, one of the youngsters got five little cups ready for the liquor. Suddenly a man walked in and seized the whisky bottle. Drinking on board is an offence, he said, claiming to be a policeman. Would the guy holding the bottle step out into the corridor? Everything changed in a second. The camaraderie vanished. The friends began pointing fingers at each other. The other passengers looked away. The policeman continued to make threats. He would take "action" against them at the next station, he said. I had finished my meal. I asked for the constable's identity. Who was I to interfere, he wanted to know. When I insisted on seeing his ID, he reluctantly pulled it out. The card identified him to be a policeman all right -- but not part of the railways. I told him how I saw the whole thing. One, the incident had taken place on a train, so only the railway police could interfere. Two, no rule prohibits a passenger from carrying liquor in a train. Three, even if the passenger drinks the police could take action only if co-passengers lodge a compliant. In this case, the bottle was not even opened. At this juncture, the friends too joined in. In the face of our onslaught, the policeman shook his head dolefully, returned the whisky bottle, and got down at the next station. I returned to my seat. The youngsters wanted to know who I was. A member of the public, I told them. The liquor was a collective merrymaking plan. Everyone was "guilty" but they all tried to safeguard their own interests when a friend was in jeopardy. I was suddenly tired. So was everyone else. Maybe the heat had got to us. The youngsters had to get down in Kalyan early next morning. They all retired at 9 pm. Without opening the bottle. At 4 am, the youngsters were ready to get down. I heard one of them telling another not to disturb my sleep just to say goodbye. Did I imagine it, or did I really feel a hand touching my feet in leave-taking? Perhaps the same one that had held the bottle? When the train left Kalyan I thought about the incident. Why did I interfere? Was it because I felt the constable had been playing this intimidation game on a regular basis? The train soon pulled into Dadar. My driver was there on the platform to whisk me home. Venkatraman A is a public-spirited bank employee. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
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