The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  ‘Kandivali Station, Baba.’

  ‘Baithiyay,’ said the old man.

  His compatriot, a young man in khakhi overalls with a grimy tea towel slung on his shoulder, looked on patiently from inside his auto. Seeing Aparajita climb into Baba’s auto, the young man yanked his floor starter in a single, almost militant move. The auto roared to life, sputtering all the while he waited for Baba to give way.

  But the old man’s auto refused to shunt. The young man could hear the thudding sound that every yank of the starting lever made as it fell back on the floor. He climbed out from his auto and came over.

  ‘Kya hua, Baba?’ he asked. ‘Has she been misbehaving lately?’

  Aparajita smirked at the use of the female gender. She eased back on the taut Rexine, noticing, despite herself, a feeling of fondness accumulate inside her for the two men.

  ‘Arey beta, it is Haj time now for the two of us,’ joked Baba, patting the handlebar affectionately.

  The young man laughed and offered Baba some Rajnigandha, which he accepted matter-of-factly, extending his palm for a few taps of the sachet, then flinging the rubble down his mouth.

  Now what, thought Api, curious.

  The young man said to baba, ‘Chalo, I’ll leave you till the station.’

  Baba said, ‘You will?’

  What did he mean by ‘I’ll leave you’, wondered Api. ‘Surely he meant, ‘I’ll take the passenger?’

  The young man now returned to his auto. Api heard the thud of the starting lever and the eruption of noise at her back.

  Then, with Baba in his driver’s seat—keeping the handlebar even with his left arm even as he dislodged a Rajnigandha remnant from his teeth with the polished nail of his little finger—and Api displaying open-mouthed bewilderment, their auto lurched forward. There it went, gaining momentum, carrying Baba and Api merrily along. It would maintain a reasonable pace and then leisurely, on its own, die, upon which the man following behind would reconnect their auto with his left foot.

  The two autos, like a couple, stumbled forward in staggered formation.

  It was the ox pushing the cart, and to Api, it was wonderful. The young man, she realised, wasn’t going to let Baba to lose his earnings; he wouldn’t steal Baba’s passenger away.

  With every gentle push to her auto from the man’s left foot, Api could feel the lump in her throat increase. Soon, she was contrasting her life with that of the autowallahs; the reasons why she had come to Mumbai, her terrible loneliness. Api felt she had nothing, possessed no one. And these autowallahs—happiness and brotherhood. And what of their benefactor’s time and petrol? She could have cried, but she was afraid Baba would hear her and turn around and start a conversation.

  Baba asked, seeing the station come into view, ‘Where shall I drop you, beti?’ unmindful that the man trailing behind in his auto was the one doing the taxiing.

  ‘Bas here, Baba,’ mumbled Api. She wanted to get down and find a spot where she could cry unseen.

  ‘Achha,’ said Baba and whistled, loud enough for the man doing the kicking to hear it. With one last punt he let go of Baba’s auto. His job done, the man revved the accelerator and disappeared down the road without once looking back.

  Baba applied the brakes and the auto came to a stop right in front of the station entrance.

  There was no way Api could say a word, so she thrust a hundred-rupee note into Baba’s palm and ran for the platform, refusing to hear the cries behind her: ‘Arey beti, this is too much. Arey beti, wait.’

  The evening crowd watched as Api skipped the stairway two steps at a time. A line of jostling and elbowing people formed either side of her. Some thought it was a movie take—the heroine jumping off the auto and rushing in to catch the train slipping away with her beloved.

  Api asked a man who was staring at her, ‘Bhaiya, which platform for the CST local?’

  ‘Here it comes,’ said the man, pointing in the direction of the approaching train.

  Api ran to the counter and bought a ticket. Because she was going in the opposite direction—towards the city centre—the crowd was manageable. She climbed into the ladies’ compartment and searched her way in slowly, looking out of the barred windows, taking in the cool evening breeze. She spotted an agreeable space and sat down.

  Across her, two women were talking.

  ‘Arey, just hand me that methi, Kamla,’ said one.

  ‘Here,’ replied the other while tossing the greens in the air. ‘Not much of a bundle for six rupees, is it?’

  ‘Arey, this is loot maar, I tell you; we’ll be eating grass next.’

  ‘You don’t listen, didi, do you? Why do you keep buying vegetables from Iqbal? I am sure he has a magnet stuck under his pan. Look—this is never one kilo.’

  ‘Yes, you are right—maybe 800, 750 even…Oh, namaste ji. Hello.’

  Api smiled at the women. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I hope we are not boring you with our chit-chat.’

  ‘No no, not at all.’

  ‘I am Shakti ben and this here is Kamla. And you?’

  ‘Aparajita. Aparajita Biswas.’

  ‘Bungali?’

  ‘My husband is.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Madrasi.’

  Shakti ben drew her breath in. ‘No. Really?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You are not that dark. And you have fish-shaped eyes. You look more like a Bungali to me. I find you are very attractive.’

  Api laughed. ‘Well, thank you Shatki ben. That’s very kind of you. You should tell this to my husband.’

  ‘Shouldn’t do that—they get very possessive otherwise; start behaving as if their wife is Aishwarya Rai, no less.’

  ‘So you think it’s better to be ugly in front of your husband?’

  ‘If you can help it.’

  ‘Hah, thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  Shakti ben commenced the plucking of methi leaves. ‘You are not from Mumbai, right?’

  ‘Yes. How did you guess?’

  ‘You are sweating like anything.’

  Aparajita reached for her pallu and glanced upwards. ‘I wish the fans were working. How long till CST?’

  ‘Plenty—at least twelve stops in-between. You’ll reach CST by eight-thirty. Is somebody coming to pick you up?’

  ‘What? No, I’ll take a taxi.’

  The interrogation continued. ‘Here on vacation?’

  ‘I thought I was, but all I have seen this past week is Gateway. And today’s Elephanta trip also got cancelled.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, with my husband. These vegetables…?’

  Shakti ben cleared her sinuses and raised her head. ‘Arey, this is our daily routine. Where’s the time these days, you tell me, haan. We’ll reach home by nine, with kids darting all over, screaming dinner, dinner. This is the only way to save some time, Aparajita ben.’

  ‘That’s clever.’

  ‘You can see our preparations for tonight’s dinner: Methi matar and aloo gobi…What does your husband do?’

  ‘He’s a police officer.’

  ‘My family has a few policemen but not one posted in Mumbai. My rotten luck. Life would have been so much easier.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Shakti ben wiped her nose on her blouse sleeve. ‘And what about you? Do you work?’

  ‘I am a lecturer at Delhi University.’

  ‘I thought so. You look like a lecturer. Where is the sari from?’

  ‘Fabindia. It’s Rajasthani print.’

  ‘You should come to our Gujarat. Our prints are the best.’

  ‘If I may ask, Shakti ben, what do you do?’

  ‘Arey don’t be so shy, Aparajita ben. Ask, ask anything.’

  ‘Yes, well…’

  ‘Both Kamla and I work in a jewellery shop in Borivali. Seven to seven, every day except Sunday. But I hate Sundays—that’s when I have to listen to all this jhik-jhik of my husband and kids. Monday to Saturday I am my own ra
ni. The only jhik-jhik I have to listen to is of my darling Kamla. Kyon ri, Kamla?’

  Kamla nodded.

  ‘Twelve hours, and Saturdays, too—that’s a tough life, Shakti ben.’

  ‘Arey, I am lucky I have this job. So many women I know are stuck in their matchboxes, poor things. This way, I am away from all that. And today was my weekly trip to the beauty parlour, too…See?’

  Shakti ben brought her face forward and craned her neck. ‘Nice, no. And see, see the brows? Ten rupees only.’

  ‘Haan, good job. A practiced hand.’

  Shakti ben gesticulated with the bundle of methi in her hand. ‘And my husband? He doesn’t even notice these things.’

  ‘Shakti ben, everyone’s looking at us. A bit softer please…’

  ‘Arey, Aparajita ben, these are all my friends. I know each and every one of them.’

  Aparajita glanced around the bay. ‘Surely not…’

  ‘With my eyes closed, then what. They are my life, Aparajita ben—the happiest time of my day is spent here, in their company, in this ladies’ compartment, slicing vegetables and chopping onions. Even if I was sacked from my job, I’ll keep taking this train every day without fail. Kyon, Kamla. No, Durga?

  ‘That beauty sitting on your left? That’s Durga ben. Her husband is a dabbawallah, and over the years, he has come to know of some amazing recipes—and now because of Durga, I know of them, too.’

  Aparajita turned to her left. ‘Hello, Durga ben. Aparajita.’

  ‘Namaste, Aparajita ben.’

  Shakti ben pointed across the bay with a cauliflower. ‘And that one by the window? That’s Madhu. Marathi. She makes the best srikhand in the whole world.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘This coach is my true home. This is the real Mumbai. People—it’s the people who make the city.’

  Aparajita tucked a lock behind her ear and smiled. ‘How true.’

  Shakti ben reorganised her bulk and settled it in the lotus position. ‘So, tell me…how long have you been married? You have any children?’

  Aparajita was taken aback with this new and bizarre line of questioning. Out of politeness but with an unsure voice, she answered: ‘Er, since ‘93—eleven years. No, no children.’

  ‘Eleven years. And when were you engaged?’

  ‘Engaged. Oh, let me think…1990.’

  ‘Three years you waited? That’s too long.’

  ‘That’s what Ajay—my husband—thought.’

  ‘But you didn’t think likewise. And why no children? You’ll need them when you are sixty. And how old are you? Arey, don’t be shy. I am forty-nine myself.’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Now it’s too late to have children. But why don’t you have any?’

  Aparajita was beginning to have second thoughts about this newly found friendship. She recalled her train journey across Europe a few years ago where, for five days and five nights, across nineteen countries, with countless different cuisines to comment upon, with the ever-changing weather to despair at, new languages, different dialects, not one person exchanged a word with her. Not one person, not one word. And now this.

  ‘Er, Shakti ben, if you—if you don’t mind…’

  ‘Arey Aparajita ben, why are you feeling shy, haan? Tell me—will I get down with you at CST? Am I going to follow you all the way to Delhi?’

  ‘No no…’

  ‘Then? Listen, too often we think we don’t want to talk to anyone, that we are alright as it is. But you know, that’s where this ladies’ compartment comes in. I was just like you on the first day that I started using this train. And let me tell you, there was this wonderful woman called Tulsi ben—passed away last year—and it was just like this. Me shy, like you, and Tulsi ben, sitting opposite, just like I am now. And she told me the words that I am telling you now.

  ‘…Life is too short. Only strangers become our true friends. They want nothing in return. They know the other person is going to get off in a minute and will be gone forever. They just lend their ears. They are, strangers are, the most unselfish people you can find.’

  Aparajita could feel a tug at her heart. This was a new experience for her, opening up to someone she had met a minute ago. And she had to agree that Shakti ben’s words said had a ring of truth to them. The world is full of kind and warm people, she thought, and it has taken me fifteen years and a train and an auto ride to find two of them. She nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘…And she said, “Shakti ben, use this time as your Amritanjan. Tell us your problems, your worries. Use me. Use us, Shakti ben.”’

  Aparajita placed her elbows on her thighs and cupped her cheeks. ‘How wonderful.’

  Shakti ben wiped her brow. ‘Yes, and I tell you, Aparajita ben, I cried—there and then. The tears wouldn’t stop. I told her everything, absolutely everything. There was so much to tell. And she, and Bimla ben, and Kanta ben—they took it all; like Bhagwan Shiv, they drank all that poison. And suddenly I felt so free, so alive; all my sadness went out of this very window you see here.’

  ‘That’s so wonderful.’

  ‘And I haven’t looked back since. You can say I am the sarpanch of this compartment; maybe because of my age, or maybe because, before she left us for heaven, Tulsi ben made it known. And this is the best responsibility I have had in my entire life. Durga ben here knows more about me than my husband ever will.’

  ‘Arey Shakti, I also know more about your husband than you ever will.’

  Shakti ben flung a pea at Durga. ‘Durga, you mui...So you see, Aparajita ben. In your world you pay thousands just so you can go and talk to—what do you call them—yes, mind doctors. You pay thousands. In here, it is free. And let me tell you, we might not be doctors, but when patients get together to share their problems, who needs a doctor?’

  Aparajita could have cried. ‘You people are amazing, Shakti ben.’

  Shakti ben smiled. ‘So, now…’

  ‘Anything. Just ask anything.’

  ‘Why no children?’

  ‘I can’t have any.’

  ‘Who said so—the doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t believe a word of him. I know a swamiji—not your nakli sadhu type. I’ll take you to him. I’ll take care of all costs, don’t worry. You just tell me when we can go.’

  ‘Really, that’s too kind of you, Shakti ben. But we have been to a hundred hospitals, done a thousand tests. We may go for adoption sometime soon, maybe; yes, maybe.’

  ‘As you wish, Aparajita ben. Still, give my offer a thought. Dauktary hasn’t got the cure for everything—and you know where to find me.’

  ‘That I do. Thanks, Shakti ben. I think I could cry now.’

  Shakti ben reached over and patted Aparajita on her thigh. ‘Arey arey, get a hold on yourself, Aparajita ben.’

  ‘Yes…thank you for this, Shakti ben. You do not know how much you…’

  Shakti ben massaged the thigh lovingly. ‘Bas, bas, Aparajita, bas, bas.’

  Aparajita hadn’t realised the train had hardly moved in the past half-hour. Now she noticed they had stopped altogether. The train rocked and pitched, making her extend her hands and grab the window bars.

  Slowly, tiredly, they began to move again.

  Shakti ben pushed the baby cauliflowers away and cleared some space for the next assignment. ‘Pass me the matar, Kamla…Unusually slow today, isn’t it.’

  ‘Oh, I know why, didi. It’s because of that rail minister. I read in the newspaper while you were getting your eyebrows done. Flagging off a new train, he is today. All lines to the south will be like this.’

  ‘These ministers. Who cares if thousands are home late in this heat. Our Aparajita will miss her dinner now…’

  ‘Arey no no, Shakti ben.’

  ‘Was it love marriage?’

  The query jolted even the softened-up Aparajita. ‘Hmm? Sorry, what, Shakti ben?’

  ‘Was yours a love marriage?’

  ‘Oh, haha. Yes, I supp
ose you can say that.’

  Shakti ben clucked her tongue. ‘Oh, I know. Your husband was a rebound, your second choice.’

  Aparajita was too shocked to answer. Shocked because of the outrageous candidness—shocked because it was true.

  ‘I can see it, Aparajita ben, I can feel it. Behind that calm face, there’s just the opposite in that mind of yours. You loved someone else, didn’t you? You loved that man to death, didn’t you? And that man ditched you, like they all do in the end.’

  Aparajita shook her head vehemently, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘No no, it wasn’t like that—at all—no it wasn’t…’

  ‘But you loved him to death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you ditched him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then? He fell into a ditch?’

  ‘T-thaa.’

  Shaki ben was unrelenting. ‘The family, wasn’t it? Your family? His family?’

  ‘My fam…’

  ‘Your family? Why. Was he no good? Did he not have a job?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that. He was fantastic. And yes, he loved me to death and I loved him beyond death and everything was right—his job, his future…’

  Shakti ben was on the edge of her seat. ‘What were you before you became a Biswas? I mean, baaman, bania, what?’

  ‘It wasn’t me; it was my father.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And my mother.’

  ‘Bhagwaan…’

  Aparajita sobbed into a bunched-up pallu end. ‘I couldn’t do a thing. I lost the battle.’

  ‘No you didn’t. You ran away is what you mean. I have seen it happen so many times.’

  ‘It wasn’t as simple as that, Shakti ben. My father swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills—right in front of my eyes…’

  ‘Hey Bhagwan. Kalyug…kalyug.’

  ‘And then, right there, he passed on the bottle to my mother, who without as much as batting an eyelid, swallowed the rest.’

  ‘Kalyug…kalyug.’

  ‘Both my parents landed up in the ICU.’