“Bag!! My bag!! Where’s my second bag!!”
The harried looking Amby driver looked in the rear view mirror and asked in a tone which could mark his origins out in a zillion. “Ka hua sahib….ARE KA HUA”!!
I’d arrived on an overnight train in Patna and still half asleep caught a cab to my hotel.
“Mera bag kahan hai??”…”Are yeh kya rakha hai aage…itna bada”, he shot back. “Not this baba!! Woh chhota wala…”, “Hum ko to ek hi bag diye the aap sahib….hum nahin karenge aisa, humko to roj station pe hi rehna hai…”, he said almost pleadingly…the years on his face growing more pronounced. Suddenly he was looking guilty; as if it was his fault somehow, that I had lost my bag.
“Train!! Train me reh gaya hai!! Who agla station hai na…wahan chalo….jahan train jaati hai!!!” My laptop, blackberry and some very important papers had already started making me sweat in spite of the early winter chill of the morning. “Aree kaun sa station…kaun sa gaadi se aayein hai aap?? Reservation to tha na…!!? Dekhiye ghabrayiye nahin…mil jayega”…he said sounding more worried than I was!!
While I had gone completely numb, he made the decision for me and turned back towards the station. His ancestral Amby putting all her heart into the 43 kmph we managed. Danapur express it seemed went two further stations and if I went to CRPF and was in reservation dabba, I’d get my bag…probably, he assured me.
As soon as we entered the driveway, we noticed that the train hadn’t yet left the station, and I jumped out of the moving car, to start running towards the train, only to find the coach in which I was traveling locked when I reached the train. The attendant opened the doors as I rushed in shouting absently “mera bag…bag reh gaya hai mera!!”, “Kahan….kaun sa seat number??” His partner was wrapping up the blankets and broke into that same apologetic tone as the taxi driver. “Yeh sab chor ke kahan jayenge sahib…hamare liye yeh zaroori hai…humne nahin liya aapka bag…”, he said pointing towards the heap of linen and blankets. The same pleading look came to both their faces, as if they were responsible for the whole mishap. Meanwhile I let out a loud cry, because I had located the small red bag lying under one of the berths.
The driver and 5 other people who had found a conversation topic beside the daily news broke into a toothy grin as I walked in carrying the red on my shoulder. “Hum dekha, bhaga ke le ja rahein the wo Kotwali ke saamne se 100 ka speed pe…hum bola ee bhaiyan ko ka hua…dhuriya udaye chale ja rahe hain…”, one of them was saying... “aree woh bag rah gaya than a bhaiya ka”, the hero of the day responded as the knight restarted his Ambassador Classic Isuzu engine.
As I was sitting in the car, I pondered over this. Everyone I met during the past 1 hour seemed have assumed I was going to blame them for losing my bag. They were suddenly defensive, apologetic, even pleading in the manner they tried to assure me that they had no role to play in it. Why?
Bihar enjoys a terrible image amongst us. For an Indian living elsewhere, it is a state of miscreants, Gundas, Lalus and a state of anarchy. Bimaaru rajya. The state that took away the livelihood of all Marathis according to Raj His Highly Moronic-ness Thackrey. The state where Christian missionaries are murdered. The state where caste system is at its worst. The state where trains are looted. The state where you do not want to drive through at night because…hey….its Bihar.
The apology in those people’s eyes…it was the look in the eyes of an abandoned child who is cowering in the corner, scared. A child who has been pushed to the wall, by the bullies: this country which has all but forgotten about it except for in its jokes or for years, has tagged it as a blot on its name. Its own leaders, who robbed the state as its people died of hunger. Somehow, it felt, that those people had come to accept it. That it really was their fault, this image…that they really were the corrupt, thieving, uncivilized lot we make them out to be.
“Chaliye sahib…aapko chai pilate hain mast…sara tension door ho jayega…”, cooed my driver as he guided me to a hidden tea stall where lots of cowering children were laughing out loud enjoying a hot cup of morning tea.
The harried looking Amby driver looked in the rear view mirror and asked in a tone which could mark his origins out in a zillion. “Ka hua sahib….ARE KA HUA”!!
I’d arrived on an overnight train in Patna and still half asleep caught a cab to my hotel.
“Mera bag kahan hai??”…”Are yeh kya rakha hai aage…itna bada”, he shot back. “Not this baba!! Woh chhota wala…”, “Hum ko to ek hi bag diye the aap sahib….hum nahin karenge aisa, humko to roj station pe hi rehna hai…”, he said almost pleadingly…the years on his face growing more pronounced. Suddenly he was looking guilty; as if it was his fault somehow, that I had lost my bag.
“Train!! Train me reh gaya hai!! Who agla station hai na…wahan chalo….jahan train jaati hai!!!” My laptop, blackberry and some very important papers had already started making me sweat in spite of the early winter chill of the morning. “Aree kaun sa station…kaun sa gaadi se aayein hai aap?? Reservation to tha na…!!? Dekhiye ghabrayiye nahin…mil jayega”…he said sounding more worried than I was!!
While I had gone completely numb, he made the decision for me and turned back towards the station. His ancestral Amby putting all her heart into the 43 kmph we managed. Danapur express it seemed went two further stations and if I went to CRPF and was in reservation dabba, I’d get my bag…probably, he assured me.
As soon as we entered the driveway, we noticed that the train hadn’t yet left the station, and I jumped out of the moving car, to start running towards the train, only to find the coach in which I was traveling locked when I reached the train. The attendant opened the doors as I rushed in shouting absently “mera bag…bag reh gaya hai mera!!”, “Kahan….kaun sa seat number??” His partner was wrapping up the blankets and broke into that same apologetic tone as the taxi driver. “Yeh sab chor ke kahan jayenge sahib…hamare liye yeh zaroori hai…humne nahin liya aapka bag…”, he said pointing towards the heap of linen and blankets. The same pleading look came to both their faces, as if they were responsible for the whole mishap. Meanwhile I let out a loud cry, because I had located the small red bag lying under one of the berths.
The driver and 5 other people who had found a conversation topic beside the daily news broke into a toothy grin as I walked in carrying the red on my shoulder. “Hum dekha, bhaga ke le ja rahein the wo Kotwali ke saamne se 100 ka speed pe…hum bola ee bhaiyan ko ka hua…dhuriya udaye chale ja rahe hain…”, one of them was saying... “aree woh bag rah gaya than a bhaiya ka”, the hero of the day responded as the knight restarted his Ambassador Classic Isuzu engine.
As I was sitting in the car, I pondered over this. Everyone I met during the past 1 hour seemed have assumed I was going to blame them for losing my bag. They were suddenly defensive, apologetic, even pleading in the manner they tried to assure me that they had no role to play in it. Why?
Bihar enjoys a terrible image amongst us. For an Indian living elsewhere, it is a state of miscreants, Gundas, Lalus and a state of anarchy. Bimaaru rajya. The state that took away the livelihood of all Marathis according to Raj His Highly Moronic-ness Thackrey. The state where Christian missionaries are murdered. The state where caste system is at its worst. The state where trains are looted. The state where you do not want to drive through at night because…hey….its Bihar.
The apology in those people’s eyes…it was the look in the eyes of an abandoned child who is cowering in the corner, scared. A child who has been pushed to the wall, by the bullies: this country which has all but forgotten about it except for in its jokes or for years, has tagged it as a blot on its name. Its own leaders, who robbed the state as its people died of hunger. Somehow, it felt, that those people had come to accept it. That it really was their fault, this image…that they really were the corrupt, thieving, uncivilized lot we make them out to be.
“Chaliye sahib…aapko chai pilate hain mast…sara tension door ho jayega…”, cooed my driver as he guided me to a hidden tea stall where lots of cowering children were laughing out loud enjoying a hot cup of morning tea.
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