by S. P. Singh
On a sweltering summer evening, platform number four of the New Delhi Railway Station was jam-packed with passengers, their friends, and relatives who were there to see them off. They waited for The Ranikhet Express to move out. The train whistled a few times. The green signal was on, but the guard, in a faded dress, chatted with his friends. He showed little urgency. Most passengers were seated, while others waited on the platform in needless anxiety. A few among them shopped for books, magazines, snacks, tea, and bottled water. The latecomers with coolies in tow rushed towards the train and searched for their seats.
Finally, the driver’s patience ran out, and the train moved with a long, shrill whistle. Amid pandemonium, the passengers on the platform ran inside, pushing through the people and inviting their angry stares and muffled curses.
“Thank God! The train’s late; otherwise, I’d have missed it. Delhi is so overpopulated. You face traffic jams everywhere,” a woman in her mid-thirties mumbled and then yelled at the coolie, “Bhaiya, berth 32 is here. Get the luggage fast. The train’s moving.”
“I’ve reservation for A 32,” the latecomer said to the woman sitting on her seat.
“Yeah, it’s yours. Mine is the upper one,” the woman said and shifted to the opposite side.
“Take this,” the latecomer said, handing a hundred-rupee note to the coolie.”
“Thank you, memsahib,” the coolie pocketed the money and jumped out.
Within a few minutes, the train left the city lights behind. It was 9 p.m. The Lateness of the train by fifteen minutes had enabled her to board it on time. Through the tinted, unclean windows of the air-conditioned coupe, both the women, with mixed feelings, watched the darkness swallow the city. They were escaping from Delhi for different reasons. One was returning home to join her husband in Nainital, while the other was visiting her mother in Ranikhet after a fight with her husband. After a while, they looked at each other, exchanged smiles, and got into conversation.
“I’m Divya.” The first woman extended her hand and felt the co-passenger’s hand soft and sweaty.
“I’m Shivani. Shivani Rawat. That’s my maiden name I kept after my marriage despite my husband’s objection,” said the second woman, who had boarded the moving train.
Then both fell silent for a moment.
“I’m going to Nainital to join my husband. I’d come to Delhi to look up my ailing aunt,” said Shivani and then put her hand in the handbag and fished out a hand mirror, hair clip, and lipstick. She pulled her hair back and put on the clip. Then she retouched her lips, a lighter shade of brown, and replaced the items into the bag. A stolen glance at the co-passenger gave her delight and relief. But Divya’s gaze a second later forced her to hide her triumphant grin.
Later, she pulled her legs up on the seat and made herself comfortable. They were the only passengers in that coupe, meant for four, and it gave them confidence as the other two seats were vacant. After a brief while, in walked the ticket examiner wearing crumpled white trousers, a black coat faded at the elbows and collar, and a black tie. He matched their tickets with the chart, glanced at their IDs, and asked them to be alert as only a few women traveled in the compartment. They fumed in indignation at his casual remark on an important issue of women’s safety.
“Where do you live in Nainital?” asked Divya.
“A furlong from Naina Devi Temple. My hubby is a writer. Presently, he is writing about the lost tribes of Kumaon. The book keeps him busy,” Shivani spoke with a tinge of sadness in her eyes.
“Do you have kids?”
“Yeah, a son. He is in the boarding school.”
Then they shared a brief, anxious silence.
“Don’t you think the writers are so different from others? I meant no pun for your husband.” Divya broke the silence.
“Yeah, you’re right. They are dreamers and lost on their own. Often, it becomes quite unsettling,” Shivani said with a faint smile. Then she gazed into Divya’s eyes and asked, “Your hubby?”
“He’s an exporter. Ours is a garment business,” Divya replied.
“Isn’t it great being married to a millionaire? One doesn’t have to worry about the money like a middle-class housewife. I heard the rich men are fun-loving, too.” Shivani winked.
“Yeah, but money is not everything. My hubby is more fun-loving than I can handle.” Divya hid her anguish behind her smile.
“I beg to differ. Money is important to those who don’t have enough of it,” Shivani said.
“Maybe, but not to those who have too much.”
“That’s the irony of life. Isn’t it?”
“True.”
Then they unpacked the paranthas, vegetables, and pickles, and shared the food. They craved hot tea but at that late hour, it was difficult to get there as the next station was far away and the train had no pantry car. So, they curbed their urge.
Putting the leftovers in the plastic bag, they stood up and threw it in the dustbin. Shivani returned to the coupe. Divya went to the toilet. Since neither of them felt sleepy, they resumed their conversation.
Divya, the more talkative of the two, took the lead and asked Shivani, “How is life with a writer? I mean, how exciting it is.”
“It’s OK, sometimes thrilling but often boring. After a few years, the romance goes out of the marriage. I guess it’s the same with every couple.” Shivani took a deep sigh.
“I think it’s so romantic for a woman to have someone write poetry for her, give her a poem and not flowers on her birthdays. It’s so different, so out of the world,” Divya said with a glint in her eyes.
“Yeah, once in a while, it’s a heady feeling, but women like to be pampered with clothes and jewelry.” Shivani winked.
“True, but the ornaments have no real meaning in life. To me, the honest relationship is more important,” Divya said.
“What do you mean?”
“Being honest with each other and not cheating your spouse by sleeping around,” Divya clarified.
“Is it an issue in today’s world? Adultery is common even in small towns and cities. How can one keep a check when both spouses travel often for work and deal with the opposite sex every day? It’s human to succumb to the temptation.” Shivani shrugged her shoulders.
“Whatever you might feel, honesty between the spouses will remain an important issue as long as the civil society exists,” insisted Divya.
“What you say is true, but it’s funny the people should view faithfulness as the sole virtue upon which a married relationship should hinge,” Shivani argued with little conviction.
For a moment, they stopped as the train passed through the station. The engine let out a loud whistle. Both peeped into the dark and tried to read the station’s name, but in vain. A night like that did strange things to the people. It aroused awe in some, melancholy in some,
and romance in others. But they sought something different.
Divya stood up, opened the bag, and pulled out a steel thermos flask. She asked Shivani, uncorking it, “Would you care for some coffee?
“Why didn’t you give it earlier?”
“Oh, it slipped out of my mind then. I recollected when I saw the station.”
“Thanks. Coffee is my weakness. I can drink it any time of the day or night. If somebody wakes me up in the middle of the night and offers it, I won’t refuse.” Shivani’s face lit up.
“I hope it’s hot. The company advertises that their flasks keep drinks hot or cold for up to twenty-four hours. Let’s check their claim,” Divya said, pouring coffee into two glasses.
“Wow! It’s really hot. Thanks.” Shivani was ecstatic.
They sipped coffee at leisure, exchanging smiles in between. Shivani had a passion for coffee and often had it with her husband on the lawn and the balcony, watching the sunset behind the hills on the horizon. Those moments were precious for her, as he discussed with her the theme, characters, and plot of his novel. She listened to him with rapt attention and gave her suggestions, which he sometimes included. He valued her ideas and admired her intelligence.
“Thinking about hubby?” Divya asked.
“Yeah, you’re right. Coffee reminds me of him. He discusses his book with me over a cup of coffee.”
“Lucky girl. At least your man has time to drink coffee with you. Mine doesn’t sit with me even for a few minutes. I often eat alone. I can’t recall when we had our last dinner together. Business is his first love, and I get the last priority.”
“You’re being harsh to him. There are no businessmen in my family, but I empathize with them. After all, running a business requires a lot of time and hard work.”
“You’re right, but earning money is not everything in life. He ought to give time to me. I don’t know how to spend time alone in a large bungalow.”
“Maybe you should join the kitty parties or spend time in social activities about which we read in the newspapers and magazines.”
“I wish I could, but I’m not like them. My mindset is different because I grew up in a small place. I don’t like parties and social work. I find them a big sham.”
“But the media and the peer attention are so exciting.”
“I find it boring; in fact, vulgar and farcical.”
Their discussion was getting serious, so Shivani changed the topic. “What about your kids? Where they are?”
“We are yet to start the family. Perhaps we will plan within a few years.” Divya’s voice deepened with sadness. Though she wanted a child, her husband showed no interest. He avoided the issue for the reasons best known to him.
“It’s good to have kids. They give a nice company when the husband is away.”
“Yeah, but I can’t produce them alone. I need his help.” Divya winked, bringing a smile to Shivani’s face.
“Isn’t it strange that the woman who carries the child in her womb has no say in the matter when and how many children she should have? It’s always the man who has the last say,” Shivani said with a deep sigh.
“Yeah, it’s a man’s world, whether we like it or don’t. So, next time when God asks you for your choice, ask Him to make you a man,” Divya teased.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I’m better off as a woman,” Shivani shot back.
The loud rattle of the bogey wheels and the shrill engine whistles interrupted their talks. Disruption had become a routine. When the train crossed the station or the bridge, it made loud noises and in the din, they couldn’t talk.
“What’s the time?” Shivani asked.
“11 p.m.,” said Divya, “I hope I’m not keeping you awake. You can go to sleep. I’ll take some more time.”
“No. I’m not sleepy,” Shivani smiled.
“My mother would be waiting for me,” Divya said, wiping her face with her hands. “She is alone at home. I’m looking forward to spending some time with her.”
“Why? Where’s your father?”
“He lives in Mumbai. He left my mother a decade ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ve forgotten him long back.”
“What led to their break-up?” Shivani asked. “I hope I’m not being too nosy.”
“No,” Divya replied. “I was twelve when I learned about it. I was in the hostel then. My mother told me they had filed for divorce and soon would get separated. Since father was not keen to take me with him, the onus of raising me fell upon my mother.”
“It’s so tragic.”
“Yeah, but when I read about thousands of orphan girls, I forget my struggle. At least I got my mother to take care of me.”
“That’s the spirit. I like your philosophy of life,” Shivani tried to cheer her companion up.
“What philosophy, yar? I just keep a positive attitude.” Divya smiled.
Shivani sighed when Divya became herself again. She was thankful to God for giving her a great childhood with loving parents, though she was the third child after two sons.
“I can understand how hard it would have been for you.”
“It’s so sweet of you.”
“We get one life and we should enjoy it to the fullest. I hope your hubby spends
quality time with you in the future.” Shivani gave her an endearing smile.
“I can’t complain about my situation. I’m to blame for it.” Divya’s past shadowed the glow on her face.
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“Perhaps you don’t know. There was someone who loved me so much and cared for me until I dumped him because of my stupidity.”
“Is this your second marriage?”
“Hmm.”
Shivani waited with bated breath. Divya peeped into the cold dark outside and said. “It happened six years ago. After my post-graduation, I worked in the Imperial Hotel in Nainital as a receptionist. The job was to tide over the financial crisis my mother faced. She had no bank balance or property, except for a modest house in Ranikhet. Though some people advised her to ask for maintenance from my father and if he refused, then file a case against him, my mother refused. She was too proud to ask him for alimony. My mother would have preferred to die than beg money from the man who had dumped her for a younger woman. I respected her decision then. I respect it more now.
Neither did I meet my father, nor ask him for any monetary help. I didn’t want to see his face. It’s a different matter that he contacted none of us. Our lives were better without him. My mother shifted to Nainital, where we rented a house. After about a year, I met a man in the hotel. He was there for a seminar on wildlife organized by the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). Later, I gathered he was an important speaker in the seminar because of the extensive research he’d done on the subject.
Ours was a chance meeting. One day when I was at the reception, a bearded man wearing a kurta pajama walked to the counter and asked me about a foreign delegate. I smiled at his appearance and wondered what that rustic man was doing in a three-star hotel. His sharp eyes caught me smiling, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was in a hurry. In the evening, I found an envelope with my name at the reception. Curious, I read it.”
Dear Divya,
The world is not what our eyes see. The truth remains hidden until someone discovers it. Few people have the time and courage to do that. The silent majority lives a life based on false beliefs.
Yours,
Rustic
That note stung me like a bee. For the next few days, I felt ashamed. The man had read my eyes and interpreted my smile correctly. I got attracted to him. After a while, we began dating, and a few months later; we got married. He was a writer, but I considered him an explorer. Before writing on any subject, he visited the places, met with the people, and collected the facts. He was obsessed with the details, to the point of being insane. I hope your hubby is a normal guy?” Divya looked at Shivani in the dim light and said.
“My man is too lazy to dig out the details. He is just a writer. I think the similarities end there,” Shivani said nonchalantly.
“What does he write about?” Divya asked, to clarify a few of her concerns.
“He writes fiction for which he doesn’t need much research. Divya, you were telling me about your first hubby,” Shivani reminded her.
“Yeah, I told you how we met and dated. He’d a soft corner for the poor. When we walked together, he’d stop and ask people on the street how they earned their livelihood. Often he’d give them money and move ahead. What surprised me the most was that he needed money to build the house, but that didn’t deter him from helping the needy.
One day, he received a huge royalty for his book. With that, he purchased an old bungalow on the hillock in Nainital, where he shifted with a box full of old clothes, an old typewriter, and some books. I helped him in setting up the new house. To my utter surprise and delight, he proposed to me. I accepted and the following month we got married in a simple ceremony. My life was blissful for about a year. Life with him in a beautiful hill station was a dream fulfilled. On the weekends, we went trekking in the mountains and spent nights in abandoned gaddi huts. Our honeymoon lasted a year.” Divya took a breather.
The word ‘honeymoon’ made Shivani blush. Unable to control herself, she asked, “If you don’t mind, may I ask you something personal?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it with him? I mean…,” Shivani couldn’t hide her awkwardness.
“You mean physically,” Divya waited for a moment and then said with a grin, “Yeah, he was good, nothing out of the world but passionate and frequent. We lived a happy life but were often short of money, about which he never complained. But I always felt the pinch. I wanted to buy better things for us, but he seemed least interested. His life revolved around his books. When he worked on a manuscript, he forgot everything—eating, drinking, shaving, bathing or talking. When I whined, he urged me to go for a walk around the lake and leave him alone.
During an evening walk, I met with a handsome guy. Seeing a woman alone on the bench, he approached me. He was a dashing and confident young man. He introduced himself and asked me for coffee. Though I was hesitant to go with a stranger, his courteous behavior bowled me over. Then something strange happened inside me. I developed feelings for him. We met several times. Those days were trying times for me, both mentally and physically, as my husband was busy and gave me little time. His neglect willy-nilly pushed me into the waiting arms of another man. We overstepped the boundary of our friendship on the last night of his stay. He promised to marry me after I divorced my husband. The man gave me dreams, real big dreams of a luxurious life. He’d a palatial house in Delhi with a battery of servants and earned loads of money.
His wealth and physical prowess were too tempting for me to leave. So I planned to leave my poor husband, who had no time for my emotional or physical needs. And I worked towards achieving my goal. In a couple of months, my persistent nagging and howling made his life hell. To my delight, one day he suggested that if I wasn’t happy with him, it was better to separate and end the bitterness that was destroying us. With a smile, he signed the divorce papers. We separated amicably. The next day I resigned from my job and moved to Delhi. I married my new husband in a grand ceremony.
I couldn’t believe my luck of marrying a prince and living a fairy-tale life about which the girls read in the story books. We went on our honeymoon to Switzerland. After that, I went with him on many foreign trips. Suddenly, the world that I’d built with loyalty, honesty, and hard work fell apart when I discovered my husband was sleeping with not one but many girls. I realize how important it is to have a man devoted to you and you alone, in mind and body. Despite his shortcomings, my first husband was an honest man and valued loyalty high in marriage. Having burnt my fingers, I repent now that I left him, hankering for a wealthy lifestyle. What my first husband gave me, I’d never get that in my life. I remember him running to me and sharing his first thoughts about his new book. I’d listen to him and give him my stupid suggestions that he sometimes found useful. He respected me more for my intelligence than my body. My present husband treats me like a sex doll to satisfy himself when he’s home.
Divya wiped her moist eyes. The story had moved Shivani, who waited for her to regain her calm before clarifying a doubt, “If you’re in a terrible marriage, why don’t you leave him?”
“It’s not that easy. How long can I hunt for Mr. Right? What’s the guarantee the next man will be a good one? To be candid, I’m tired and have no heart for experimenting all my life. Continuing in the present relationship is my atonement for hurting a nobleman. Good or bad, for me life would go on like this.” Divya sank into the sea of sadness.
“Suppose your first husband forgives you and asks you to come back? Would you go back to him?” Shivani’s abrupt and strange question pulled Divya out of her melancholy.
“God can’t be so generous again after watching me botch it up the first time,” Divya said with a forced smile. “Sorry, I bothered you with my sob story. It seems you’re missing your hubby.”
“Yeah,” Shivani sighed. “I wonder how he can be so lazy sometimes. When I’m not at home, he’d make a mess of the house. Used plates and cups would lie all around. More clothes would be out of the cupboard than in it. The sheets and pillows would lay everywhere; in the drawing room, bedroom, and study. But he doesn’t behave that way when I’m with him. He clears the mess before I enter the house. I can imagine him cleaning the house, replacing the clothes and books in the cupboards and shelves. Before I reach home, the bed would have fresh sheets and pillow covers. The house would be spick and span. He’d stay awake tonight in my wait and greet me with red eyes in the morning. Though clumsy, he is cute and helps me find happiness in small things. I love my man and would never leave him,” Shivani said but felt foolish that it could hurt Divya.
“How stupid of me? You’re telling me about the man whose name I’m yet to know,” Divya said.
“Abhi…”
“Abhinav,” Divya prompted.
“No. Abhishek,” said Shivani. Both let out a muted sigh.
“I wish you both many, many years of togetherness,” Divya said and then looked at her watch. “Oh God! It’s past midnight. We should catch some sleep, otherwise, your hubby will blame me for keeping his sweetheart awake throughout the night.”
She looked at Shivani and winked. When Divya went out, Shivani took out a piece of paper, scribbled a note, and pushed it into the inner pocket of Divya’s handbag.
“Aren’t you going to the washroom?” Divya asked, entering the coupe.
“Yeah.”
After some time they switched off the night lamp and fell asleep. The next morning they awoke when the train stopped at Kathgodam. They got down and looked around for the coolie.
“Thanks for the delightful company. Keep in touch.” Divya hugged Shivani.
“Sure, give my love to Auntie. Drop in at my place when you visit Nainital,” Shivani said, handing her address.
Divya shoved it in her bag. Then they exchanged smiles, shook hands, and parted.
In the evening at Ranikhet, Divya, while searching for the suitcase key, emptied her handbag on the bed. A piece of paper startled her. She opened it and read:
Dear Divya,
It would shock you that the man you had left some years ago, is with me. I’m married to him, though he has changed a lot. After you moved away from him, he has lost much of his originality. You have lost a good husband, and the world has lost a talented writer. What I have is a simple and good human being. You may rest assured that I’ll take good care of him as you would wish me to.
Shivani.
Divya read the note again and again, tears streaming down her eyes. Then she prayed for both Abhinav and Shivani.