Last Train Home

Yaar ... buddy

Fer ... Then
Teri bari kudd hai Barade? ... When is your turn?
Khush reh, ash ker ... Be happy, have fun

Waheguru ... God

Jawan ... soldier

Tu ki karda? ... What are you doing?

Last Train Home
By
Raman Jalota

August 1968, somewhere on the Indo-China border
    Harbans Singh walked into the tent and saluted matter-of-factly.
    “Sir, I have a request for the captain.”
    Captain Hoshiar Singh looked up from his desk and said, “Oh, it’s Barada.”
    “Y ... Yes, sir. It’s me ... Barada ... er Harbans Singh.”
    He shuffled uncomfortably as the captain looked at his application for leave.
    “I am not very familiar with the name of your village. Where is it? Kapurthala?”
    “Yes, sir. You are right. It’s in Kapurthala district.”
    “So, you want to go home in mid-September. Ah Barada, my friend. You getting married yaar?”
    He blushed. “N .. No sir. I am not getting married. I have a sister who is getting married this time.”
    The captain ran his fingers over his mustache, twisting it to give it a sharp angle at the end.
    “Fer? You are going to get married next year? Teri bari kudd hai Barade?”
    Barada stood nervously, shuffling his feet and waiting for the word.
    “Okay yaar. Khush reh, ash ker. Bring us some laddoos.”
    “Absolutely, sir. Thank you, sir.” He grabbed the approved leave paper and ran out excitedly.

......

    Harbans Singh paced the platform. He was always apprehensive when waiting for the train home. If I don’t leave now, they might come and take me back to the barracks. I have been here a whole year. It’s September again and time for me to go home and be with my people. If these bastards had their way, I would never get home. God damn army.
    The train arrived almost thirty minutes late and he quickly got in the third-class sleeper. He found an empty berth and unrolled his bedding. He muttered a short prayer to Guru Nanak. Satisfied with the sleeping arrangement, he pulled out a box of Four Square cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. Several people stared at him including a Sikh, who gave him a nasty look. He realized his mistake. He ran into the bathroom and took off his turban. He ran a comb through his long, almost shoulder-length hair. He checked and rechecked the mirror. Finally satisfied, he walked out. He stood by the door, watching the people running around the station until the train whistled and slowly pulled out of the station.
    “Thank you, Waheguru. Now I can breathe freely.”

.....

    Jalandhar station was approaching as he rubbed his eyes and rolled his bedding. He washed his face and quickly put on his blue turban. As the train slowed, he was very surprised to see his brother, Rattu, along with several others from his village. He waved to his brother, who ran into the bogey even though the train hadn’t stopped. They embraced and his brother took the bedding from him.
    As they got off the train, one of the villagers stepped up and put a garland of marigolds around his neck.
    “Welcome, sir. We are honored to have you back.”
    Barada was puzzled, “Me? What did I do? This is the first time something like this ...”
    Rattu rapidly whispered, ‘Shhh. You are a big hero and some of the villagers wanted to welcome you and escort you to our home.”
    Oh damn! Now I can’t smoke until we get back to the village and even then it’s going to be hard. Damn these people.
    He whispered back, “What, me, hero?”
    “Yes Barada, you saved your border post from being over-run by the Chinese army in March, remember?”
    “Oh that one. But I wasn’t the only one. There were several of us, who held our posts until we got reinforcements. It was good to get the commendations. Rattu, I also got more money in my pay. One day we will come back to Jalandhar and I will take you to a bar and a cinema. Have you ever had a woman, Rattu? We can find some women, too. One for you and one for me.”
    “Yes, yes. Thank you, Barada. You are the best brother in the world.”

.....

August 1970, somewhere on the Indo-China border
    Harbans Singh walked into the tent and saluted matter-of-factly.
    “Sir, I have a request for the captain.”
    There was no response from anyone. Here we go again! Just like it was at the canteen. No one gave me my breakfast. My tea and eggs. I had to get it myself. God damn army. What are these people? Deaf? Blind? They behave as if I am dead or something. Bastards. God damn army.
    He cleared his throat loudly and shouted. “Sir! Look up here ... I am here, Sir. It’s me, Harbans Singh.”
     A few minutes passed before Captain Hoshiar Singh looked up from his desk and said, “Oh, it’s Barada. I thought I heard something.”
    “Y ... Yes, sir. It’s me ... Barada ... er Harbans Singh.”
    He shuffled uncomfortably as the captain looked at some papers on his desk. The captain ran his fingers over his mustache, twisting it to give it a sharp angle at the end. He stared into space, just over Barada’s head.
    “Too bad, he never got married. Maybe we could ... ...”
    Barada stood nervously, shuffling his feet and waiting for the word.
    “Okay yaar. Khush reh, ash ker.”
    “Absolutely, sir. Thank you, sir.” He grabbed the approved leave paper and ran out excitedly.
    Harbans Singh found himself on the railway platform. He paced nervously. He was always apprehensive when waiting for the train home. If I don’t leave now, they might come and take me back to the barracks. I have been here a whole year. It’s September again and time for me to go home and be with my people. If these bastards had their way, I would never get home. God damn army.
    The train arrived almost thirty minutes late and he quickly got in the third-class sleeper. He found an empty berth and unrolled his bedding. He muttered a short prayer to Guru Nanak. Satisfied with the sleeping arrangement, he pulled out a box of Four Square cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He realized he still had his turban on. He ran into the bathroom and took it off. He ran a comb through his long, almost shoulder-length hair. He checked and rechecked the mirror. Finally satisfied, he walked out. He stood by the door, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the train whistled and slowly pulled out of the station.
    “Thank you, Waheguru. Now I can breathe freely.”

.....

    Jalandhar station was approaching as he rubbed his eyes and rolled his bedding. He washed his face and quickly put on his blue turban. As the train slowed, he was very surprised to see his brother, Rattu, along with several others from his village. The crowd seemed to be bigger than the last few times. My my, there must be fifty people here. Are they are here to welcome their hero, me? Or is it something else? It seems more like a procession to receive a dead body ... everybody is dressed in white .. What the hell is going on?
    He waved to his brother, who didn’t seem to recognize him. He looked straight into my eyes and didn’t see me. God damn Rattu. I wonder what ...
    Finally Rattu entered the compartment but didn’t seem inclined to embrace him as he used to all these years.
    “What’s wrong, Rattu?” Have I changed that much from last year? Don’t you recognize me? What has happened?”
    Rattu either didn’t hear him or didn’t want to answer him. As the train emptied, they got out of the train. They were the last to leave. Several villagers stepped up and put garlands of marigolds and roses around his neck.
    “We are honored to have our hero back home.”

.....

August 2005, somewhere on the Indo-China border
    Harbans Singh walked into the tent and walked to his desk. It had his name and rank: Subedar Major. When did I become a Subedar Major? When did they give me this promotion? And why?
    The tent fluttered as a strong wind picked up. One of the attendants in the tent said. “ Looks like a storm is coming. Maybe a rough night.”
    A few minutes passed before Captain Hoshiar Singh looked up from his desk and said, “Oh, I think ... I know, it’s Barada. I... I thought I heard something.”
    Barada sat down at his desk uncomfortably. Captain Hoshiar Singh looked at some papers on his desk. The captain ran his fingers over his mustache, twisting it to give it a sharp angle at the end. He stared into space, just over Barada’s head.
    Barada finally heard,“Okay yaar. Khush reh, ash ker.”
    “Absolutely, sir. Thank you, sir.” He grabbed the approved leave paper and ran out excitedly.
    Harbans Singh found himself on the railway platform. He paced nervously. He was always apprehensive when waiting for the train home. If I don’t leave now, they might come and take me back to the barracks. I have been here a whole year. It’s September again and time for me to go home and be with my people. If these bastards had their way, I would never get home. God damn army.
    The train arrived almost thirty minutes late and he quickly got in the third-class sleeper. He found an empty berth. He muttered a short prayer to Guru Nanak. He pulled out a box of Four Square cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He realized he still had his turban on. He ran into the bathroom and took it off. He ran a comb through his long, almost shoulder-length hair. He checked and recheckede mirror. Finally satisfied, he walked out. He stood by the door, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the train whistled and slowly pulled out of the station.
   “Thank you, Waheguru.”

.....

    Jalandhar station was approaching as he rubbed his eyes. He washed his face and quickly put on his blue turban. As the train slowed, he was very surprised to see his brother, Rattu, along with several others from his village. He waved to his brother, who seemed to be staring into space.
    Finally Rattu entered his compartment but seemed preoccupied with something. He just nodded his head as Barada tried to talk to him. As they finally got out of the train, one of the villagers stepped up and put a garland of marigolds around his neck.
    “Welcome, Harbans Singh. We are honored to have you back.”

.....

August 2007, somewhere on the Indo-China border
    Harbans Singh walked into the tent and walked to his desk. It had his name and rank: Captain Harbans Singh.Wow! Now I am a captain. I had no idea. Beautiful, fantastic army.
    He sat down at his desk, and searched for the leave slip. He was feeling very uncomfortable, the desk didn’t seem to be the same desk he had used yesterday, nor could he find his approved leave slip. He looked across the tent at the other desk. Captain Hoshiar Singh ran his fingers over his mustache, twisting it to give it a sharp angle at the end. He stared into space, just over Barada’s head.
    Harbans Singh puffed on an imaginary cigarette and stared blankly at nothing for a few minutes. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. He nodded his head. At last, he seemed to make up his mind. I am going home. It’s September and it’s time for my annual journey. This captain ... Captain Barada is going home now.
    Harbans Singh found himself on the railway platform. He paced nervously. He was always apprehensive when waiting for the train home. If I don’t leave now, they might come and take me back to the barracks. I have been here a whole year. It’s September again and time for me to go home and be with my people. If these bastards had their way, I would never get home. God damn army.
    The train arrived almost thirty minutes late and he quickly got in the third-class sleeper. He found an empty berth. He muttered a short prayer to Guru Nanak. He pulled out a box of Four Square cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He realized he still had his turban on. He ran into the bathroom and took it off. He ran a comb through his long, almost shoulder-length hair. He checked and rechecked the mirror. Finally satisfied, he walked out.
    A clean-shaven army jawan was unrolling his bedding on Harbans Singh’s berth. Harbans Singh walked up to him and shook his shoulder.
    “Oy, tu ki karda?”
    The jawan straightened up, looked past Barada, shrugged his shoulders and continued. Harbans Singh was very annoyed. He was already upset at not finding a berth reserved in his name as was usually done by the army. And now this. God damn army. And this kid doesn’t even talk to me ... as if ... as if I don’t exist. God damn civilian. He walked to the door and stood there smoking cigarette after cigarette.

.....

    Jalandhar station was approaching as he rubbed his eyes. He quickly washed his face. As the train slowed, he was very surprised to see an almost empty platform. What happened? Why is there no one to receive me? Where is Rattu? Where are the village people with the garland? When did I stop being a hero?
    Subedar Piara Singh stood on the railway platform smiling to himself. He patted his chamcha on the shoulder and began talking excitedly.
    “At long last my injunction against the army has worked. No more fake promotions for a dead soldier. No more desks for a ghost. No more railway tickets for a ghost to go home. No more sleeper berths paid for by the army for a ghost. No more inflated paychecks for a ghost. No more villagers welcoming a ghost on the platform. No more fake ceremonies. No more superstitions in the army. This charade is finally over. And it’s all thanks to me.”
     He felt a hand on his shoulder. A powerful hand shook him and jerked him around. A turban-less, disheveled and angry Harbans Singh stood facing him, staring at his eyes. Piara Singh looked with fear into Barada’s eyes. They were red with anger, Barada was on fire. Barada had a Four Square cigarette packet in his hand and a lit cigarette between his lips. Barada had become a B grade Bollywood actor, ready to start a fight for social injustice. He rolled the cigarette in his mouth, from side to side as he shuffled on his feet and screamed, “Oy, tu ki karda?”

The End 2460 words

Copyright © 2004 Raman Jalota. All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

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