Chapter 16: Harsh

# Chapter 16: Harsh

## The Departure

November 8, 2026. 4:22 AM.

The alarm did not ring because the alarm was unnecessary. The alarm had been unnecessary for six years: unnecessary because the body knew, the body having been trained by six years of waking at this hour, the training (kind that the body did not forget even on) the days when the mind wanted to sleep, the wanting that was irrelevant because the body was the boss and the boss said: wake up. The chai will not make itself.

But today was not a chai day. Today was a train day.

Harsh made the morning batch anyway. The batch, which was the routine, the routine, which was thing that the body demanded even on thedays when the routine was not required, the demand (muscle memory's insistence): the water must boil. The CTC must steep. The cardamom must be crushed. The pouring must happen. These things must happen because these things are what we do and what we do is who we are.

He made the batch. He served the early customers, Bahadur at 5:00 AM, the auto-rickshaw drivers at 5:15, the sweepers at 5:30. He told them: "Aaj shaam ko dukaan band rahegi. Raju sambhalega subah. Shaam ko band."

The shop will be closed this evening. Raju will manage the morning. Closed in the evening.

"Kahan ja raha hai?" Bahadur asked.

"Goa."

"Goa? Tu? Chai-wallah Goa ja raha hai?"

"Santosh ke saath. Ichha Deewar ka kaam."

Bahadur nodded. The nod — the understanding, the understanding that Bahadur had, the understanding of a man who had been drinking chai at this counter for fourteen years and who knew what the Ichha Deewar was and what the Ichha Deewar did and who understood that when the chai-wallah said "Ichha Deewar ka kaam," the chai-wallah meant: someone's wish is being granted. The granting requires my presence. The presence requires my absence from the shop. The absence is the cost.

"Chai kaun banayega?"

"Raju. Subah ki batch Raju banayega. Recipe wahi hai. Pour. Pour thoda kam hoga."

Raju. Raju will make the morning batch. Same recipe. The pour, the pour will be a bit less.

"Pour kam hoga toh mazaa kam hoga."

If the pour is less, the fun is less.

"Paanch din ki baat hai."

It's only five days.

"Paanch din bina teri chai ke; yeh toh saza hai."

Five days without your chai, that's a punishment.

Harsh smiled. The smile, rare, the rarity — noted by Bahadur, auto-rickshaw driver's observation — the noting, the observation that a man who rarely smiled was smiling at 5:15 AM on a November morning, and the smiling, which was evidence that the man was not just goingto Goa for the Ichha Deewar's work but was going to Goa for something else, the something else (thing that auto-rickshaw drivers understo o)d because auto-rickshaw drivers understood everything about their passengers — the understanding — profession's gift, the gift of twelve hours a day in a vehicle with strangers who talked as if the driver was invisible, the invisibility giving the driver access to the city's secrets.

"Journalist bhi ja rahi hai?" Bahadur asked.

"Documentary ke liye."

"Documentary ke liye. Haan."

The "haan" being the same "haan" that Salim had used. The "haan" that meant: I know. I see. You are not going for the documentary and neither is she. You are going because you are going together and the together is the reason.

Harsh did not respond. He wiped the counter. He crushed the cardamom for the next batch. He performed the routine's gestures because the routine's gestures were the only gestures he knew, the knowing: chai-wallah's vocabulary, the vocabulary that was: crush, boil, steep, pour, wipe, repeat. The vocabulary not including the gestures that the day required, the gestures of departure, of leaving the shop, of walking away from the counter for the first time in, in how long? How long since Harsh had left the shop for more than a doctor's appointment or a supply run or the collection at Chappan Dukaan?

Two years. Two years since his last absence of more than twelve hours. The last absence being the trip to Ujjain for Mahakaleshwar darshan, annual pilgrimage that he had taken with, the darshanBaba until Baba's Parkinson's had made the pilgrimage impossible, the impossibility: disease's confiscation of the religious, the religious: thing that the disease took along with the pouring and the walking and the steady hands.

At 7 AM, he went upstairs. Baba was awake. The 7 AM Syndopa having been administered by Kamla Pandey, the neighbour, who had agreed to come every morning and evening for the five days, the coming, the neighbour's contribution to theIchha Deewar's work, the contribution that was not money but presence, the presence, which was more valuable than money because money could be collected from sixty stalls but presence required a person and a person was not collected but offered.

"Baba, main ja raha hoon."

"Samundar."

"Haan."

"Mitti laana."

Bring soil.

"Laaunga."

"Aur, Harsh — "

"Kya?"

"Journalist se baat kar. Achhi ladki hai."

Talk to the journalist. Good girl.

"Baba."

"Kya?"

"Journalist se baad mein baat karunga. Pehle Santosh ko samundar dikhana hai."

I'll talk to the journalist later. First, I need to show Santosh the ocean.

"Pehle samundar. Phir journalist. Sequence achha hai."

First the ocean. Then the journalist. Good sequence.

Brajesh's humour, the humour that the Parkinson's had not taken, the humour, which was thing that survived, that survived the trembling and the slowness and the medication's side effects, the humour. Last fast thing along with the eyes, the eyes and the humour: two things that the disease could not reach.

Harsh touched Baba's feet. The pranam, the departure's pranam, the pranam that Indian sons performed before journeys, the journey, any distance that took you beyond the house's walls, the walls: boundary within which the pranam protected and beyond which the pranam's blessing traveled with you.

Brajesh placed his trembling hand on Harsh's head. The blessing. The hand that had blessed Megha and Pushpa and four hundred and twenty-three wish-writers and that now blessed the son who was carrying the wall's work to the ocean.

"Jaa," Brajesh said. "Samundar dikha. Achha dikha."

Go. Show the ocean. Show it well.

---

Indore Junction railway station at 5:30 PM was. Indore Junction at 5:30 PM was India. Indore Junction at 5:30 PM was the country compressed into a building, the building containing every class and every caste and every community and every aspiration and every anxiety, the containing: railway station's function, the function that the British had designed in 1875 and that independent India had inherited and expanded and under-maintained and over-crowded and loved, the loving: the Indian traveller's particular relationship with the railway station: hatred and dependence and nostalgia in equal parts.

Platform 3. The Indore-Mumbai Express. Train No. 12962. Departure: 18:35. The train was on the platform — the train, blueICF coaches that Indian Railways had been running since the 1970s, the coaches that was country's connective tissue, the tissue that connected Indore to Mumbai and Mumbai to Goa and Goa to the ocean.

Santosh was already there. Santosh and Pushpa and Rinku and Guddu and Sonali. Five people. One family. Five bags: the bags, the working-class traveller's bags, the bags: not suitcases (suitcases were for the airport) but holdalls and jholas and one plastic bag from a DMart shopping trip, the plastic bag containing: packaged food for the journey (thepla, mathri, namkeen, two packets of Parle-G biscuits, four bananas, one bottle of mango pickle), the food: the Indian traveller's insurance against the railway's catering, the insurance; mother's policy, the policy that was: never trust train food. Never trust anyone's food except your own. The stomach is my jurisdiction and the stomach will be fed from my kitchen even when the kitchen is a plastic bag on a railway platform.

Pushpa was wearing the green sari. The washed-soft green sari, the sari that she always wore, the sari that she would wear until the station, until the moment when the magenta Maheshwari silk would replace it, the replacing that was surprise thatMegha carried in a brown paper package in her bag.

"Santosh bhai." Harsh arrived at the platform at 5:45 PM, fifteen minutes before departure, the fifteen minutes; chai-wallah's punctuality, the punctuality of a man who measured time in three-minute steeps and ninety-second pours.

"Harsh bhai!" Santosh's face, Santosh's face was the face of a man who was standing on a railway platform for the first time in; for the first time in his memory. Not the first time ever; Santosh had taken trains before, in his youth, before the stall, before the twenty-seven years. But the memory of the previous train had been overwritten by twenty-seven years of not-trains, the not-trains that was standing and the serving and the chaat and the cycle, the cycle having erased the previous experience, the erasing: working life's particular amnesia: you forget what travel felt like because you have not traveled.

Rinku stood next to her father, Rinku, twenty-four, who worked at the electronic components factory in Pithampur, who earned ₹14,000 per month, who had taken leave for five days (unpaid, the unpaid, the factory's policy for leave beyond the annual twelve days, the twelve days (legal minimum that the factory observed a n)d that the factory did not exceed). Rinku was, Rinku was the family's provider along with Santosh, the providing that was two incomes that sustained the family, the sustaining: mathematics: Santosh's ₹25,000-₹30,000 + Rinku's ₹14,000 = ₹39,000-₹44,000 per month for a family of five in Indore, the ₹39,000-₹44,000 being the amount that covered rent (₹3,500) and food (₹8,000-₹10,000) and school fees for Sonali (₹1,200) and Guddu's ITI fees (₹2,500 per semester) and medical (₹1,000-₹2,000) and transport (₹1,500) and everything else, the everything else; category thatIndian families created for the expenses that did not fit into any other category, the category —: festivals, weddings, funerals, repairs, emergencies, things that happened and that the budget, the emergenciesdid not plan for and that the family absorbed the way the body absorbed bruises — silently, slowly, painfully.

Guddu was nineteen, the ITI student, the boy who had been taught to make dahi-puri in two days and who was now running the stall for five days, the running, which was responsibility that the family had placed on the youngest working member, the placing, which was the Indian family's method: responsibility was distributed by availability, not by age.

Sonali was sixteen. 11th standard, the age at which Indian children were deciding their future (Science or Commerce or Arts, the deciding, which was three-way fork thatIndian education imposed at sixteen, the fork: country's method of sorting its young into the categories that the country had decided were the only categories: doctor/engineer, businessman/accountant, or everything else, the everything else: category that the country did not value but that the country needed). Oil ran warm over her fingers.

Sonali had her earphones in. The earphones, the sixteen-year-old's shield; the shield against the family's conversation and the platform's noise and the world's demands, the shield, which was music that played in the earphones, the music — whatever Sonali listened to (Harsh could not hear, the not-hearing that was earphones' purpose).

Megha arrived at 5:50 PM. She arrived with Keshav. Keshav carrying the Canon, the Canon charged (all three batteries, Keshav had borrowed a third battery from a colleague at IBN MP, cameraman's resourcefulness, the borrowing, the resourcefulness of a man who was shooting a documentary with a personal camera and borrowed batteries and no budget).

"Sab aa gaye?" Megha asked. Everyone's here?

"Sab aa gaye."

The group: Santosh, Pushpa, Rinku, Guddu, Sonali, Harsh, Megha, Keshav. Eight people. Three berths booked, AC Three-Tier: two berths for Santosh's family, one berth for Harsh/Megha/Keshav (the one berth (tight accommodation), the tight, the budget's constraint, the constraint requiring Harsh to take the upper berth and Megha the middle and Keshav the lower, the arrangement that was journey's geometry).

Keshav filmed the departure. He filmed Santosh's face as the family boarded, the face of a man climbing into a train with a ticket that other people had bought, the ticket, which was community's gift, the community that was sixty stalls and a hundred strangers and a journalist and a cameraman and a chai-wallah.

He filmed Pushpa arranging the bags on the upper berth — the arranging; mother's first act on any journey, the act of securing the luggage, the securing, which was anxiety's response to the train's movement, the movement that could knock a bag from the berth, disaster that the mother prevented with s. The knockingtrategic placement and a dupatta tied around the handle.

He filmed Sonali removing her earphones — removing them for the first time since the platform, the removing: train's effect: the train was too interesting for music. The train was the window. The window was the world moving past. The world moving past was better than any song.

The train departed at 18:42 — seven minutes late, the seven minutes being the Indian railway's version of punctuality, the version: anything less than thirty minutes late was considered on time.

The train moved. The train moved past Indore Junction and past Rau and past Mhow and into the Malwa plateau, the plateau that Santosh had lived on for fifty-one years without leaving, the plateau: the only geography that Santosh's feet had known, the knowing ending now, the ending. Train's gift: the train was taking Santosh off the plateau and toward the coast.

Harsh sat by the window. The window — the train's television, the television that did not require electricity or a subscription or a remote, the television that played the country's landscape in real-time, the landscape: fields and villages and stations and bridges and rivers and roads and cattle and trucks and children waving at the train from level crossings, the waving: universal gesture of theIndian child at a level crossing: wave at the train. Wave at the people in the train. The people in the train are going somewhere. The somewhere is the dream.

Megha sat across from him. She sat with her notebook. The notebook that had been her companion since the first night in the sarafa bazaar, the notebook now nearly full, the nearly full: story's measure: the story had filled a notebook. The story was large enough for a notebook.

"Kya soch rahe ho?" she asked. What are you thinking?

"Soch raha hoon ki Baba ke bina pehli baar train mein baitha hoon."

I'm thinking that this is the first time I've sat in a train without Baba.

"Baba theek hain. Kamla aunty hain."

Baba's fine. Kamla aunty is there.

"Haan. Kamla aunty hain. Lekin; lekin Baba train mein baithte the toh, toh window se bahar dekhte the aur har station ka naam padhte the. Har station. Ek bhi nahi chhodte the. Aur mujhe bataate the, 'Yeh station 1897 mein bani thi. Yeh station pe pehle pani ka tanker aata tha. Yeh station pe tera dada utra tha jab Dewas se Indore aaya tha.' Baba ko sab stations ka itihaas pata tha."

Baba would sit in the train and read every station name from the window. Every station. He wouldn't miss one. And he'd tell me, "This station was built in 1897. This station used to have a water tanker. Your grandfather got off at this station when he came from Dewas to Indore." Baba knew the history of every station.

"Ab Baba nahi padh sakte?"

Now Baba can't read them?

"Baba train mein baith nahi sakte. Parkinson's: train ka hilna; Baba ke liye mushkil hai. Doctor ne mana kiya hai."

Baba can't sit in a train. The train's movement. It's difficult for him. The doctor has said no.

The silence. The silence that fell between them after Harsh said this, the stillness. Train's silence, which was not silence at all (the train was loud, the loudness. Wheels on the tracks, the tracks producing the rhythmic clatter that was the Indian train's soundtrack) but which felt like silence because the conversation had arrived at a place where words were insufficient, the insufficiency that was: what do you say to a man who is telling you that his father can no longer ride trains?

You say nothing. You sit with him. You let the train's clatter fill the space where the words should be. You let the window's landscape move past. You let the November evening darken the Malwa plateau. You let the stillness be the kindness. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Megha let the silence be. She let it be for three minutes: three minutes being an eternity in conversation and a moment in silence, the moment, which was enough for Harsh to return from wherever he had gone (the wherever: memory: Brajesh reading station names, Brajesh's steady voice, the voice that was now unsteady, the unsteadiness — the Parkinson's gift to the voice).

"Samundar kitne baje dikhega?" Harsh asked. When will we see the ocean?

"Kal raat. Goa mein. Jab Mumbai se Konkan Kanya pakdenge — tab raat mein dikhega. Konkan Railway samundar ke paas se jaati hai."

Tomorrow night. In Goa. When we take the Konkan Kanya from Mumbai, the Konkan Railway runs close to the ocean.

"Santosh ko bataya?"

"Nahi. Surprise rahne do."

No. Let it be a surprise.

The surprise. The surprise that was: tomorrow night, as the Konkan Kanya Express wound through the Western Ghats and descended toward the coast, the window would show the Arabian Sea. The sea would appear without warning, would appear between the tunnels and the bridges, would appear as a dark expanse under the moonlight, would appear as the feel of waves that the train's clatter could not drown.

And Santosh would see it. Santosh, sitting by the window, would see the ocean for the first time. The first time being, the first time (thing that could not be repeated), the thing that happened once and only once, the thing that the camera needed to capture because the capturing was the documentary's purpose and the documentary's purpose was this: a man seeing the ocean for the first time at fifty-one.

Harsh looked at Megha. Megha looked at Harsh. The looking, the looking: the looking that happened on trains, the looking that was different from the looking in the shop because the shop had the counter between them and the train had only the narrow table between the berths, the narrow table holding Pushpa's tiffin and Megha's notebook and the brown paper package that contained the magenta Maheshwari silk.

The looking said: we are here. We are on a train. We are going to the ocean. We are going together.

The train moved. The plateau darkened. The stars appeared. The stars, the Malwa plateau's stars: the stars that the city's lights obscured and that the countryside revealed, the revealing, the train's gift to the night traveller: the stars. The stars that Brajesh used to point at from the train window and that Harsh now pointed at in his mind, the pointing that was father's gesture inherited by the son, the inheritance, which was not money or property but the gesture of pointing at stars from a moving train.

The train moved toward Mumbai. Mumbai being the halfway point. The halfway, which was: twelve hours of train, four hours of waiting at Mumbai Central, eleven hours more to Goa.

Twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours between the plateau and the ocean. Twenty-seven hours in a train with Santosh's family and a journalist who drank kesar chai and a cameraman with three batteries and a sari wrapped in brown paper.

Harsh closed his eyes. He slept. He slept in an AC Three-Tier berth for the first time, the first time: luxury, the luxury of air conditioning and clean sheets and a curtain that separated his sleep from the aisle, the separation; the class difference, the class difference being: in Sleeper, you slept with the world. In AC Three-Tier, you slept with a curtain.

He dreamed. He did not dream of the ocean, he dreamed of the shop. He dreamed of the counter and the pour and the wall and the chits and the routine, the routine; dream because the routine was the deepest thing, the deepest thing: thing that the mind returned to when themind was free.

In the dream, the shop was full. In the dream, the wall was covered in chits. In the dream, Baba was behind the counter. Baba with steady hands, Baba without trembling, Baba pouring from eighteen inches, the pour; perfect, the perfection that was dream's gift: in the dream, the disease did not exist.

In the dream, the chai was correct.

In the waking world, the train clattered toward the ocean.