Trivandrum Mail

1999

1999.

 Nadira had packed her purse in the most organized manner – everything she might possibly need on the train were in the front zipper pocket – her toothbrush, her travel-size tube of toothpaste, a face wash, a small, coarse towel and a comb – her small book, wallet, and reading glasses were in the main pocket, and in a small inside pocket was a penknife, put there solemnly by her brother. The purse was not too large, it was a medium-sized jute square, and rested by her side on the seat as the train speeded along. She had taken out her book and glasses a while ago, but had been staring at the same sentence for quite some time, unable to focus, because the police officer – Shreyas – was talking – not to her, but to the elderly lady who was now awake. She listened to the slight Malayali twang in his voice even when he spoke in English, a twang which she used to have but was removed by four years of college in Bangalore.

 She tried to focus on the words in her book. Outside, dusk fell quickly, as did the sporadic rain. They passed no villages, and it had been some time since the last station. She wanted dinner, but didn’t know how to order it – the lady in their compartment had ordered a biriyani and it came soon, neatly packaged in a foil box and cardboard lid. The police officer took out a neatly packed plastic box of puttu from his bag. Both of them offered her some when they noticed she wasn’t eating. She declined both as a force of habit.

 “Are you not going to have dinner?” the police officer – Shreyas – asked her, as he produced a plastic spoon to eat the puttu with.

 “I’m not hungry,” she told him.

 She was too shy to ask him for some. She barely even knew him – she felt, in some way, as though it would be inappropriate.

 “Are you sure?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

 The kindness in his eyes disarmed her; she did not know what to do with it.

 “I’m sure,” she mumbled. “Thank you.”

  Shreyas and the other lady ate – Nadira attempted to read. When they were done, Shreyas left the compartment for a few minutes and came back with damp hands – the other lady had napkins in her bag and wiped her hands. Shreyas drank from his flask again. Nadira felt thirsty, and she too drank from the bottle of Rail Neer she had bought from the station for ten rupees. She wondered in the back of her mind about dinner. Perhaps she would just sleep hungry. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 It got darker outside, to the point that it was pitch black and when Nadira looked at the window she only saw her own chalky reflection. They stopped a station close to eight o clock, and the elderly lady in their compartment got off. When they started moving again, Nadira was well aware that she was now alone with the police officer. He was sitting differently now, leaning against the window as she was, one ankle resting on the other knee, and he still had his shoes on. The back of his head of curls flattened against the wall comically, and his hands folded in his lap as he gazed calmly out of the window with his laugh-lined eyes.

 Nadira felt as though she should say something. She needed to wash her face, get rid of the oily feeling that she was getting on her skin, but she did not want to go alone. She never had. She felt like a child, horribly handicapped.

 He seemed to sense her uneasiness.

 “Are you alright, ma’am?”

 She looked at him.

 “You don’t have to call me ma’am. You’re probably older than me.”

 The corner of his wide mouth rose up a little.

 “I’m twenty-four.”

 “I’m twenty-two.”

 “Fair enough. Are you alright, er...Nadira?”

 An odd feeling surrounded her when he said her name – they both seemed to realize it, because pink stained his ample cheeks when the unfamiliar sound escaped his mouth – the act of saying a stranger’s name was more personal than they had realized.

 She shifted in her seat.

 “I need to go wash my face,” she told him uncertainly, “And I don’t want to go alone.” Then she added, as if to justify what she was saying, “I’ve never travelled alone before.”

 He offered before she could ask.

 “Do you want me to come with you?”

 She told herself not to blush. She felt odd, asking such things of a stranger, but he was a police officer, and there was something reassuring about that, about his khaki uniform and smartly tucked in shirt, his curly hair, and his laugh-lined eyes.

 “If you don’t mind,” she said, her voice coming out low.

 He smiled widely. “I certainly wouldn’t.”

 The friendliness in his eyes disarmed her; she did not know what to do with it.

 She swallowed and took out her bottle of face wash and her small towel and stood up – he followed her out of the compartment. In comforting silence they walked down the narrow aisle to the glass door at the end – she wondered if he could see the burn on her neck; he was so tall that he probably could, and hoped that her hair was covering it fully. She pushed the door that said PULL, and they emerged in the noisy part of the train where two coaches met, the floor shifting under their feet, the clattering of the wheels on the tracks filling their ears, so much louder than in the compartment. The wash basin was small, the drain simply a hole in the middle that opened onto the tracks flying under them. The mirror in front was cracked, foggy, the tubelight right on top casting an unattractive glow over her face as she stood in front of it. Someone had drawn a lopsided heart with a ballpoint pen in the bottom left corner of the mirror.

 Shreyas stood beside her, close enough to reassure her of his presence, and far enough to satisfy his position as someone who was still a stranger to her. Feeling like a child, and rather embarrassed, Nadira quickly ran the tap, pulling it up with one hand, splashing the cool water on her face with the other. She squirted the wash onto her hand, rubbed it on her face till it lathered thickly – at this point Shreyas glanced at her and pressed his lips together to control his urge to smile. She noticed.

 “You’re laughing at me,” she stated, washing the lather off.

 “I’m sorry,” he said, although he didn’t sound as if he was. He found the young woman – Nadira – endearing, the way she had asked him to accompany her, the way she squeezed her eyes shut as she lathered her face, some of the lather catching onto a stray strand of hair that fell forward as she leaned over the basin.

 She stood upright again, patted her face with the towel, and emerged fresh-faced from behind it, her lipstick more or less intact. Shreyas told himself to look away from her lips. The lather in her hair was gone. They made eye contact.

 She smiled at him. It was tentative – it did not expose her teeth or soften her eyes but it was a smile, and it was a thank-you. Shreyas was smiling anyway. He followed her back inside the coach, to their compartment, muted silence filling their ears again. When they settled back down, Nadira felt as though she should apologize but then realized that she had done nothing wrong.

~