Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I came across him during my first long journey to Calcutta. He was on the train selling peanuts mixed with green chilli and salt, in Re 1 magic packets of 8216;time pass8217;. He passed by me, rhythmically intoning 8216;time pass8217;. I wondered, then, about his ability to identify his potential customers.
From where he got in and where he would eventually melt away, remained a mystery. Nobody ever asked him that question, the sort which people on long journeys ask each other.
Since my first journey to Calcutta, I met him on innumerable occasions in several trains. He always wore the same look. His canny eyes asked 8212; 8216;8216;You need to pass your time?8217;8217; And you were hooked the next moment.
Dressed in a long shirt or loose kurta, he never spoke more than was needed to offer you 8216;time pass8217;. His destination seemed to be where he ended the journey. He had no destination in mind before he undertook the journey.
Those of us who have a fixed rail of life to move on and descend at a given destination within a decided timeframe cannot gauge his philosophy of travelling.
If he passes you, unnoticed, during a long journey, call him by his name 8212; Mr Time Pass. He will turn towards you, without even bothering to collect the cash for the 8216;time pass8217; he has just sold to someone sitting next to you.
Whenever I undertake long journeys, I look for him till he turns up. He gives me a break from a doze, or a boring book. At times, just as I wonder why he has not turned up, he appears from nowhere and surprises me.
Reading British writer Paul Theroux recently, who travelled the whole world including India by train, I wondered how he missed him. Theroux says that a train compartment in India is a microcosm of its diverse society with its many cultures, languages and dress codes. Did Mr Time Pass fail to show up in Theroux8217;s long journeys in late 1970s8217; India?
