The Red Shirts ****

The hauntingly divine music came from the relatively deserted corner. The young man sat against the wall, eyes closed, lost in the ecstasy of producing the beautiful sounds out of his harmonica, which he maneuvered expertly against his lips. His red shirted companion sat nearby, holding the dholak against the side of his face, beating the skin to produce a rhythmic melody. Gopal produced an amazing tune from the bamboo flute. The combined effect was a melodious fragrance, elevating all within earshot to new levels of bliss. The predominantly red shirted audience sat silently, eyes closed in appreciation. They forgot everything else in those brief moments. A few others moved closer, curious at first, but soon getting magnetically drawn into the group.
***
The blaringly loud garbled announcement rudely interrupted the music.
There was an instant flurry of activity. The musicians hurriedly put away their instruments. The red shirts scurried away. There was feverish activity on the platform; red-shirted and turbaned porters rushed to board the train, even as it moved into the station. They ran alongside, scanning the insides for potential customers, leaping on board expertly once they did. Soon the black train pulled into the platform, hissing into silence like hot steel in water.
“Kaapi kaapi, chai chai,” the vendors were making brisk business. Friends and relatives moved along, frantically searching the train, peering through the windows.
Puvan was haggling with a Marwari family.
“Saab, pachaz rupiah. Char samaan heh. Samaan bada heh.” (Sir, 50 rupees. There are 4 big bags.)
“Ennappa, naanum Metras irukkaan. Enna emathureh,” the plump man spoke the little Tamil he knew. (I also live in Madras. Don’t try to cheat me.)
“Muppthu rupa than mudiyum. Ille vere aala parkaran,” his wife was loud and aggressive. (We can only pay 30 rupees. If not, we will call another porter.)
Puvan resignedly hoisted the bulging cases casually on to his head and hurried along, over bridges and weaving through the crowds. The fat couple ambled along, trying to keep up as they followed their suitcases, watching it bob like a boat over a sea of heads.
***
Veeran was talking to the two middle-aged Britons: Helen Macaulay from Bath and Maureen Waller-Price from Brighton. They were spending three or four months in India, traveling mostly by train and more or less enjoying the adventure. “We’d heard stories about delays, overcrowding, Indians not respecting your space and just general dirt,” says Helen to Veeran. “The reality has been a lot better than that, but it was disappointing to see cockroaches last night. One ran up my leg as I slept. Eeee. And the toilets? A bit gruesome,” Maureen shuddered.
“Madam, you will like India soon. You will enjoy your holiday.” Veeran laughed as he hauled the two suitcases.
***
Gopal walked slowly, taking off his turban and wiping his face. He had not got any customer this time. Competition was fierce, what with so many porters, not to mention the urchins. He handed over 2 rupees to the chaiwala, and took the steaming cup of tea. He squatted at the quiet corner of the platform. The tea was very hot… and had too much sugar in it... but Gopal relished the drink.
He watched as a few other porters counted their earnings.
***
Soon Puvan joined him.
“Enna, Gopal , sornthu ukkanthutte?” (What’s the matter, you look tired).
“Onnum kedaikkaleh. Sari va. Tee sappidaraya?” (Did not get any customer. Never mind, come. Want a tea?”
“Illa, venam. Mattikinenpa, oru settu kitte. Naalu immaam periya potti. Thookikinu roada thandi kondukinu poka sonnan. Kadaisila 30 rupa kuduthan. Che.” (No, thanks. I got a Marwari customer. 4 big bags, and he wanted me to carry it across the road. And he gave me just 30 rupees. Che.)
They squatted against the wall. Soon Veeran appeared.
“Dey, nallaneram poranthiruchuppa. Vellakari 500 rupa kudutha. Paaru. Briyani vangittu vanthirukken namma ellathukkum” (Good times are here for us. The white woman gave me Rs 500. Look, I brought briyani for all of us). He put down 3 packets. Gopal and Veeran smiled. They ate the rice hungrily. They downed it with sweet tea which they bought from a passing chaiwala.
Puvan went to the small store room, and took the rusty metal harmonica. Then he took the dholak, and the flute. Back at the corner, he handed the dholak to Veeran, and the flute to Gopal. Smiles broke their faces.
Moments later, they had transported themselves back to their own private heaven.