Burhanpur. A small town with a railway station. Out train – the venerable Tulsi Express from
Allahabad is just pulling out. A sign
informs us to ‘alight here for Dargah al Hakami’ – people sit in small clusters
on the platform in the shade of the awning.
As the
train moves out into the town we see the sadly normal shanty huts clustered
around. What looks like a new mosque
towers over the huts. Then we pass the
pylons of an under-constuction over bridge, the Y-shapes looming up, hands
outstretched to accept the coming burden of an elevated road. Below it an orange dome and a fluttering saffron
flag announce a Hindu shrine. A few men
are crossing the track, white Gandhi-topis are the vogue in Burhanpur it
seems. A red tractor rumbles in the same
direction our train is slipping along – pulling two concrete railway ties.
The
noon-day sun outside pours down on fields and country roads. Burhanpur is not big. The land surrounding seems fertile and well-watered. Standing crops of wheat are being harvested –
or have just been, their bare prickled stalked fields testifying to happy
farmers having gathered in the sheaves. Here
are green blocks of banana plantations.
There are what seems to be maize – but looks more like jowar.
Black soil –
mainly cultivated - flits by. Are we
still in Madhya Pradesh or are we in Maharashtra yet?
My phone
beeps and I see that the good folks of Vodaphone are welcoming us to
Maharashtra. “Samosa garam” calls the
man walking down the isles. The smell of
hot samosas trails behind him as he finds no takers in our train. We are a subdued lot in this 3rd
AC coupe. Most adults are slumped over
in sleep or near-slumber. It’s the toddlers
who are keeping decibel levels up – especially one little girl whose voice box
is stuck on loud and temper trantrums…
Mr. Samosa
is back. Should I or should I not. Decision to stick to my tried-and-true
biscuits which I have brought along.
Sadly, knowing personal friends who have been drugged by apparently
hospitable strangers has elicited a promise from me to Sheba that I will not
eat food or drink what others offer ‘no matter how nice they are.’ The loss of innocence due to the rapacious
cruelty of the few.
The train
clatters on. We are being shunted across
the country in muffled luxury.
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