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Train ride home ...

Zeena tKhan
I am thirteen years old, wearing a mid-length cotton flower dress of bright purple and blue, and matching strapped summer sandals and standing on the platform of Kamalapur railway station in Dacca. 1 will be a short distance passenger in an upcoming train. I am with my cousin waiting for (he north-bound morning express train that w ill take us from Dacca to Ghorasal. our destination. I am going to be away for an entire month, for this is my summer vacation. 1 am going home. Dacca is a transitory entity for me because there 1 attend an all girls school, the very best at the time. The school’s setting is ideal for learning, tucked away in a residential area with rows of shaal. piyal and krishnachura trees. I live with my eldest brother and his family farther down in a one-story big white house with a high black iron gate. The road across from the house is lined with kamini trees on both sides. Most mornings 1 arrive at school with my brother in his office car, a white Land Rover. 1 feel happy going to school in a car. At school I occupy a double desk with the first girl and there I always have a novel on my lap. 1 read when the teacher isn't looking and often daydream and count the days to escape this city of smell, stench of human sweat and everything unfamiliar. I long for the smell of fresh country air and the sweet smell of my rose bush that I planted with my own tiny hands. In this city there is no sense of belonging. 1 would daydream of my vacation days so that I could escape to a place where the heart is. The last few days before school isover, I can hardly concentrate on schoolwork because in my mind I am already half way to the railway station. A week before my departure, my mid-size brown leather suitcase would be already packed and locked, filled with all the souvenirs and little gifts. I would gather or buy presents by saving from my monthly pocket money for my childhood girl friends who were eagerly waiting for my arrival as well.
Finally, the anticipated day is here and 1 wake up at daw n. hurriedly get dressed and anxiously wait for m\ cousin’s arrival. He arrives soon and (he scooter honks. By that time I am already out the gate and on the street. He gets down and goes into (he house to get my suitcase (hat I left on the stairs because it is too heavy for me to carry down. He climbs up to get my suitcase and with all the excitement. I forget to bid goodbye to my brother who woke up to see me off. The ride to the station takes about half an hour and 1 keep asking my cousin if we are going to be late and miss the train. At first he shows me his watch and time and calmly tells me not to panic because there is plenty of time. But somehow I am not convinced and ask him again. This time he simply ignores me. As the scooter pulls into the station. 1 jump for joy and insist that he buy tickets for an Inter class. Being an Intermediate student himself he is all for travelling Inter class because that is where all the action is. The entire platform is buzzing with people, and everyone shares a common goal, which is to get on die right train because the tracks can be confusing. There are no maps at tha( time to make sure of anything. One just uses common sense. On the platform we all wait knowing that the train is always at least forty-five minutes late. The delay is always inevitable. The scene is always the same.
People gossiping about things that no one pays attention to. It is very early in the morning and with morning’s dim light things are hardly visible. Now looking back 1 can see that it might as well be a scene from a Dickensian novel of the 19th century.
There is an overpowering smell on the platform, and in order not to inhale it. I distract myself and look at the uneven tracks. Alongside the tracks there are slums and people live there. It is eerily quiet at that particular time in the early morning. Finally, I hear that ear deafening horn of the Ghorasal bound express and it slowly winds through. The train is still not visible because the morning light is dim, but I can hear the vibration
on the platform. Now I can see it blowing its horn, giving out its steam into the horizon coming towards me in a zigzag pattern like a gigantic cobra. I see its face, a black scary face. All over the train it has its signature: Pakistan Eastern Railway. The hissing stops and it comes to a complete stop. It sits on its track and. yes, it is the right train, for it has its green body and the black engine front and the lights are bright yellow that I call the eyes of die train. To me the train has a soul and it has its unique character. Rustic and old. That gives me comfort because my nerves are by then a million knots.
We almost push people, bump into children with mothers who are rushing to get into the right compartment. We locate ours and climb in with some difficulty because the steps are very high and my cousin gives me a hand. In that split second fear takes over: What if he lets go of my hand and the train starts moving and 1 am left alone at the station? But that never happens. We find seats and I make sure my suitcase is up on the overhead compartment where I can keep watch. Again 1 double check if the key is attached to my dress with the aid of a shiny silver safety pin. That suitcase has everything valuable to me and every ten minutes I look up just to make sure that no one moved it. In sheer excitement I am awakened from a trance by the locomotive's horn as it is about to leave the station.
It by then is using its horn constantly to clear out the way out of Dacca and signaling everyone to stay off track. At first it just wiggles blowing the overwhelming horn but I don't seem to mind it. I am happy. Slowly the train winds through Dacca's informal suburbs. It takes about an hour to clear away from Dacca and it picks up its speed. 1 have about three hours ride ahead of me. I settle in for this joyous ride.
As soon as the train moves and speeds up. my imagination runs wild. I make sure that I have a good window seat and I look outside and watch all that is going on outside the window of a moving train. The landscape takes my breath away. By now
we have left behind all the ugliness of the city and all I can see is nature in its full glory. Everything looks like a painting on a canvas. The image of a (rain thundering through landscape — I still feel an emotional attachment. With its clickety clack the train roars through villages and passes picturesque landscapes, as if they are the finest looking Persian rugs blanketing the rural regions of scenic Bangladesh. I try to count the electric poles and after about a hundred lose track and stop counting. 1 spy rough shacks lined beyond the railroad fences. I see children playing games with sticks and picking up pebbles and throwing at the running train. All the while they are having fun and a dog running with them. I see a gentle river running through a village. A washerman washing clothes in knee deep water. On the other side of the narrow river a fisherman is trying to catch the biggest fish he can. Both the fisherman and the washerman are engrossed in their own work and they do not look up. There is no time to waste in idle train watching. They know the sound of the train and with its loud opera like rhythm they only pick up the pace with more intensity. All of a sudden the view is blocked on the other side of the track because of an approaching maalgari (freight train). The freight train most probably is carrying essential commodities like rice and other grains, sugar, jute, coal, iron and fertilizers to various parts of Bangladesh. The
freight train is one thing that I do not wish to see during my train ride home for it interrupts my chain of thoughts. In the distance I see a village hut and a woman sitting under a shaded area and picking little pebbles from her rice that she will cook for supper. She looks up as the train passes through. I cannot make out the distinct features of her face but she is like a background of a painting. I wish I was an artist who could draw all the images (hat are passing before my eyes and later could look into it and with a stroke of a brush. I would make it alive.
I am writing about a very specific time; a prerace violence time. Everything is serene, exciting, and romantic. Rural Bangladesh is simply stunning and as the train approaches the deep country side I see this metamorphosis: from ugliness into beauty. The train stops every half an hour or so to a different station. Between stations the train proceeds with a wheezing sound. Some of these platforms are non-descript. Same buzzing of people who are rushing to get to the compartment. On the platform I see a paanwalla, screaming at the top of his voice. My attention is mostly focused on the crowded mid-section of the (rain where all (he inter and third class compartments are. I stretch my neck as far as I can through the open window, just trying to take it all in. The train this morning is very crowded. The bulge of humans hanging from the door gives the (rain a different look. The train makes an attempt to move then jolts which I find very exciting as if it is teasing me. The mishtiwalla vendor always confuses me because I cannot make out whether he is saying" I mishthi or aey misthi, with his glass case on top of his head and very careful with his fast steps as he proceeds when a mother calls for him from a third class compartment for a single roshogulla for her young son. Then the paanwalla approaches her and she smiles and gets one from him and carefully hands him paisa that she had tied at her sari's aanchal (end). All these I take in like a greedy child myself, and all the while hoping that a chanachurwalla will board (he train and only then 1 can persuade my cousin to get me some jhaal chanachur. For some reason I never have any money on me during (ravel or may be because I simply don’t have any. I bought all kinds of paraphernalia for my friends back home. Most of them by now are taken out of school in seventh grade and are being (rained at home for upcoming settled marriages. They are all learning how to cook and sew and do embroidery looking through needle work catalog that was provided by a ghatak or a wise relative who is an expert. Some are trying in vain to master the intricate art of sewing a Nakshi Katha. They would sometimes write me a letter asking me to bring a spool of wool or silk thread for embroidery or a no.8 needle for doing crochet. Or sometimes, I would just add a few things on my own. A blue butterfly hairpin for my best childhood friend and a nice shiny satin ribbon to tie her hair for she had the most gorgeous jet black hair. Simple but beautiful things. My suitcase has most of the requested items for I gathered them over months in anticipation of going home. To my surprise, a peddler climbs in and wait for the ticket conductor to be done with checking tickets for the ones who just boarded. Then the peddler starts his pitch. Some people are resenting the peddler. I am excited that
he is there and do not think he is disturbing anyone. He must make a pitch to make a sale. During this particular ride the combwalla impresses me very much. He had every imaginable combs that he got out from his black display case that has a shoulder strap and the combs were made out of bright plastic. I have a very sturdy black comb and I want (he neon green one. When I look at my cousin afraid to broach (he subject, he understands and just gives me a disapproveing look. Then a man bargains for (he price of a pink medium size comb and ge(s it for one taka. I just look at it and think who it is for and how happy that girl will be when she gets it. I try to think of an imaginary daughter or a niece because he is an older man. My imagination runs wild those two hours and then the train comes to a complete stop atTongi junction.
There we wait for the connecting train to pass. Those minutes of waiting builds up anxiety. But J try to pass (he time by looking around the platform and try to locate exciting things. This junction is (he most interesting place to be. The platform is very crowded. All of a sudden from the other end of the train someone will shout paaniwalla, paaniwalla! He runs to the voice with his bucket and glasses and all the while chanting "mishti pani, two glasses for chaar anna, mishti paani".Then I spot a bookseller who is about to hop into our compartment. In a cotton sack he is carrying glossy magazines and romance novels with cheap looking covers. Then my eyes wander off to (he middle of (he platform, where a magician is doing tricks and all the passengers from the adjoining compartments cheering him on. As he is about to reveal the white dove that disappeared before and is about to reemerge, I hear the ear deafening connecting train coming into the station with full speed as it was running late. Thus it separates the magician from my view. After about five minutes my (rain starts to move again and I am elated for it won't be too long. After two more quick stops at Pubail and Arikhola my morning express heads towards Ghorasal with a thunderous roar before it slows down as it is going to be on top of the bridge over the enchanted Sitalakliya river. My heart almost stops because of excitement and fear. Those few moments I hold my breath as it starts to descend and approaches the station. At last it touches the station. I look out for our regular porter. a familiar face that my parents sends to the station. As soon as I see him, 1 wave and he smiles, happy to see me. That is when 1 know I am almost there. On the platform he starts running towards my compartment. The train stops. From the bottom of the steps he extends his hand and I kind of jump down and he gets in to retrieve my suitcase. As soon as he gets down he places my suitcase on (op his head with ease. The station is up on a hill. I start io walk fast towards the steps that leads down in the direction of my village. I almost run down the stairs and do not look back for I know my cousin and the porter are behind me some distance. At the bottom of the steps I take my sandals off. and holding them against my chest with one hand I start running full speed towards home.
Zeenat Khan writes from Maryland, USA.