As a student at Delhi University, going back home was something I contemplated with a certain dread. Unable to save enough money to take a flight home, I would resign myself to a sleeper class berth on the Purva Express. Of the long journey back to Kolkata, there was one constant, through all those years. I would always find myself sitting next to a Bengali family: husband, wife and their only five-year-old son. The gentleman would stay behind the newspaper for most part of the journey while his wife would indulge every whim that the boy could think of — a whole lot, given how young the brat was. He would stop every vendor who happened to pass our compartment and munch all day. The wife would bombard me with questions, ranging from “where in Calcutta do you stay” to “how have your parents allowed you to live by yourself in Delhi?” As the hours passed, the son would jump between berths as his mother lovingly chastised, “if you do that again, Didi will get annoyed,” she’d say, unaware of the tortures I had already imagined for the boy.As twilight turned to night, I’d pray that the brat would tire himself out and stay still. Post dinner, all of us would make our beds for a bumpy night ahead. Close to midnight, just as my eyelids would droop, the kid would loudly demanded a story from his mother. She’d turn in her sleep, and suggest he ask his father. Heavy with the amount of news he had consumed all day, the patriarch would grunt and toss the kid back to his mother, at which point, she would always say, “Babu/Babla/Babun, why don’t you sing that song you learnt at school?”By this time, I’d be hyperventilating. His childish voice cracking in places as he attempted the high notes, his mother would then start to keep the taal on her thigh. This would go on till he exhausted his collection of Tagore songs. I’d lose sleep and stay awake the entire night. Last evening, I shuddered at the vivid memory and proceeded to my seat on the plane. This time, I found myself sitting with another family and their young son who wanted to know how soon the plane would crash. I was doomed even before the take off. Moral of the story: if you thought taking a flight would ease the pain, think again.
