THE RAILWAY FAMILY

Death has its own inimitable way of presenting itself. Sometimes it prolongs the process by infusing its warm breath, in slow and painful puffs. And at other times it converts itself into a brutal hammer that targets at all your loved ones, finishing them off instantaneously, with one swift blow. In Meenal’s case it was the cold and the brutal way.

My husband and I stood on the Railway Platform waiting for the trains to arrive. The AP Express had my daughter, Rumana in it and in the Rajdhani was Meenal. Both are classmates studying at the NIFT in Delhi and both were returning home for the holidays. Early that morning something terrible had happened in Hyderabad. A family of four had been brutally murdered by their peon and their bodies charred to ashes. It was a gruesome incident and one that was quite common when viewed on Television as a thrilling murder mystery. Only this was reality. And this family of four- Mr. Baldev Raj Seth, Mrs.Prabha Seth, Kannika and Rishabh, were all the family that Meenal once had.

My daughter arrived first. It was a tough job to tell her about her friend’s sudden calamity. It was even tougher to handle her disbelief. ‘I mean, like, I mean, what is she going to do?’ was her shocked and repeated query. We didn’t have any answer. Silent and speechless, we led her to the other platform, to receive Meenal. The DRM, Mr. Ranjit Khosla, was waiting with his full convoy to receive Meenal and Ritu, his wife, who happened to be accompanying the unfortunate girl. The news had to be broken in bits and pieces, he told us. It wouldn’t help to transform our human selves into brutal hammers, for the second time that day. So the news- breaking- ceremony was postponed, until after they would reach home.

My husband greeted them warmly. My daughter’s dumbfounded expression was well masked. ‘What’s the matter?’ Mrs. Khosla asked, suspiciously eyeing the procession of people. ‘Is there some Inspection or something?’ I covertly managed to avoid the question with another. However, when it was repeated again, Mr. Khosla nodded his head. ‘Yes, the Minister’s here’, he said seriously. I wondered what we were doing here. We all should have been either in Bollywood or Hollywood. We were such great actors. It was either that or the grim fact that when breaking the news of such magnitude to an eighteen year old, who was suddenly left deserted in an island of loneliness, it required much more than just dramatic skills and procrastination. It required courage. And a heart of steel!

The news-breaking-ceremony took place. And as promised, in painful but gentle blows. Almost the entire Railway crowd gathered around for support and a few Railway Doctors hovered around her. Just in case. First it was told that her entire family had been involved in a car accident and were now lying in a hospital. I don’t know how all the others spent that night but I do know how Meenal spent it. It was with my daughter by her side. And with hope in her heart!

The next bit of news was relayed to her early the next morning. ‘They are critical’, it was told, ‘Only God can save them’. And now we were all trying to push the blame on the Almighty. And maybe forever damage her faith in Him too. For I know for sure that she must have prayed. And God only knows how much.

After she was forcibly downed with milk and toast for the extra strength that she required, the last blow was finally dealt. Her gentle mausa, took it upon himself, to perform that difficult task. ‘You mean all of them?’ she asked again and again. ‘Yeh nahin ho sakta’ she kept repeating in a dazed but vehement manner, ‘Yeh nahin ho sakta’. I got up and left the room. It was too much to bear and too ironical to accept. She had believed us wholeheartedly when we had lied to her. And now she was refusing to accept the truth.

Mr. Khosla’s house was swarmed with people. The scenario was that of a death in the family. Almost the entire Railway circle joined in the grieving. The General Manager Mr. S.M. Singla and his wife flitted in and out as if it was their own home. The MOSR Mr. Bangaru Dattatreya paid a visit just to run his gentle hands over Meenal’s hair, saying to effect that she was not alone. Heaven and Earth were moved to see that she was comfortable. Endless cups of tea and lunches were prepared in Mrs. Khosla’s house to cater to the entire mourners. Dinner was graciously sent over by Mrs. Aruna Singla. And finally in the evening, the rest of Meenal’s relations arrived.

The next morning the other formalities took place. The best of arrangements were made for the peaceful departure of the souls. The entire ceremony was punctuated with heartrending sobs and anguished sighs of ‘Hey Ram’ by Meenal’s infirm grandparents. It was a scene that everyone who stood there must have witnessed at one time or another. But instead of the fresh, warm body that usually lies ahead, wrapped in sheets and decorated with flowers, there were now four bodies. Or whatever remained of it.

When we had stood in the Railway platform, waiting for my daughter and Minal to arrive, I could not help but feel a nagging ache in my heart. A constant reminder of the fact, that none of us are immune to the tragedies in life. What if the roles had been reversed? What if it had been us and not Mr. and Mrs. Seth? What if it had been Rumana and not Meenal? Who would my daughter have come home to?

We, in the Railways, may have our little tiffs and our differences. It may be on many futile issues, ranging from Departments to caste to seniority to politics but when it comes to grief and sorrow and distress, I am now sure of one thing. I can rest assured that my immediate family or myself will always have another immediate family. A close knit one, on whom we can wholly depend upon. A family, who can look after the urgent matters, at least until the ‘chachas and the chachis and the maamas and the maamis’ arrive, to finally take over the uncertain future in their hands. And this family I call, ‘The Railway Family’.

Nargis Natarajan