Stationary

by Malvika Vazalwar (India)

Making a local connection India

Even with a train to board in thirty minutes, I was still at the office contemplating cancelling my ticket. My senior hadn’t taken my last minute travel plans well. On the other hand, I had missed my train so many times before that I had begun to dread the pleasantries of tight lips, rolling eyes and ridicule from loved ones, thereafter. A lifetime of reaching on time could not set my record straight. But I had to start somewhere. With a force that, at any ordinary time, would have cracked my shoulder blade, I lugged my bags onto my shoulder and set off. I don’t quite recollect my attempts to grab a cab. All I recall is: I was at the station and it was eleven minutes to board the train which was an enormous sprint away. Just as I was about to give up, a tug at my luggage made me spin. I was now facing a dejected looking porter. “Do you need help?” He asked with hope. “I … I won’t be able to make it. It’s on the last.” I hesitated. But before I could quit, he grabbed my bags and heaved them eagerly on his head. His adamant nature bothered me; what unnerved me more was his eagerness, he seemed to be begging. I winced with discomfort. “First tell me how much will you charge?” I asked, mustering authority, relieved to register the fact that he was wearing a uniform. I had to appease both my fear and suspicion. “You don’t want to miss your train.” He scolded me in turn. Then he charged toward the train with my luggage. The warning somehow helped me adjust my focal lens on the bigger picture. Click. Adjust. Look. What do you see? My Train! Seven minutes for the train to depart; I was sprinting. The porter was soon way ahead of me. I was panting but kept pace. He urged me to be faster and suddenly I felt glad he’d pursued me to hire him; I could see how genuinely he wanted me to catch my train. It seemed his only mission in life. His determination pumped me up. Finally, I reached my compartment; having hauled the luggage inside, the porter was waiting for me. I had decided to pay him fifty, twenty more than the usual thirty bucks. I handed him a hundred, the only denomination I had. His face fell instantly. “I won’t get change! It is a big note! Take it!” he said handing me back my money. “Keep it all.” I panicked at his selflessness, realizing that the porter could have promised to return the change and escaped. He seemed restless at first, but then he snatched the money from my hand and disappeared in a flash. The train was late, but it had just started. I was at the door, about to go in when I noticed the porter running toward the train as it caught speed. I was confused. “Was the note I gave him torn? Did I drop something?” But surprising me even more, he extended his hand to return the change. “I had had no work since morning, I was desperate. Thank you,” he confessed with a smile. I had never heard anybody speak with such earnestness and was taken aback. I had taken this man’s initial hopeful readiness as signs of weakness. Was it because it was not him who shed hope in chaos, it was me. As I left behind a panting man on the platform, I turned into a speck, appearing small instead. Arriving home on time, I was welcomed by about twenty surprised faces. Amid laughter and conversations that engaged me as an adult for the first time, I couldn’t help but remember the eager eyes and the persistence even at an old age that had secured me this warm place at my own dinner table. I traveled home a hero, overnight, while he probably was still in his uniform convincing a hopeless traveler, still on the cold platform, still stationary.