A TRAIN OF THOUGHT
I do not remember the last time I travelled by train. Must be eons back. I have dreaded them all my life. However, last week I tried to break this fixation and accepted my husband's invitation to travel with him by train to Thrissur. The jitters have died down, but a qualm still persists.
I was 9 years old when Bangalore-Thiruvananthapuram Island Express derailed at Perumon bridge over Ashtamudi lake. It was a few months after my father died. I do not recollect the exact details. But certain images have refused to disappear. The deaths, the tragedy, the stories of the really lucky ones who escaped, the sorrow of many who became orphans. I remember, for many days on end, it was the only discussion at the dinner table. My grand parents would talk about it with their friends during the Sunday visits they made. I was not over my father's death and somehow the images had stayed over and I couldn't outlive the dread.
Some months back, as I was browsing videos on Youtube, I happened to stumble upon the Perumon tragedy. I read the comments below. One person recollects how his parents were in the train and they escaped. Another writes how he lost two of his beloved teachers in the tragedy. One person proudly declares he saved the lives of two kids. One comment which I still remember is from a person who was born on the day of mishap. Upon knowing that his birthday collides with such a mishap, he hasn't celebrated it ever since.
This week, on the day of my train journey, the sore thought was `what am I afraid of ?' That it will fall off a bridge or that I do not know how to swim. I looked at my son, who was bouncing up and down in the excitement of a trip by train. I did not share my apprehension with him. Maybe his joy would rub off on me and I will enjoy the trip, I thought.
The one thing about growing up is that we learn to hide our real emotions. And in the process forget what those real ones are. For me, this week, it worked. I stepped on to the train as if I have always been travelling on it. I read a book, spent time on my phone and watched my neighbours move around and settle for the night. A baby girl cried non-stop for two hours before her mom and grand mom finally put her to sleep. In that commotion, a lot of my fright was forgotten.
In the return journey, again by train, I watched my girl colour her drawing book with ease. My son was reading a book we bought in the train. In the opposite seat, a man was snoring heavily resting his hands on a fat book on Upanishads and a lady was trying to catch up on a little sleep in dozens of positions. A few elderly men were chatting away, they must have met here and made friends. Every few minutes, a phone rings or a music plays. The fat man at the aisle seat towards the front have not stopped munching for a long time. Maybe there is someone in here who lost a near one to a train tragedy. I searched many faces. Outside the window, the bridges came and passed by. In the night sky outside, I could make out a lake brightened up with lights and boats. Maybe this is how life moves on...
I was 9 years old when Bangalore-Thiruvananthapuram Island Express derailed at Perumon bridge over Ashtamudi lake. It was a few months after my father died. I do not recollect the exact details. But certain images have refused to disappear. The deaths, the tragedy, the stories of the really lucky ones who escaped, the sorrow of many who became orphans. I remember, for many days on end, it was the only discussion at the dinner table. My grand parents would talk about it with their friends during the Sunday visits they made. I was not over my father's death and somehow the images had stayed over and I couldn't outlive the dread.
Some months back, as I was browsing videos on Youtube, I happened to stumble upon the Perumon tragedy. I read the comments below. One person recollects how his parents were in the train and they escaped. Another writes how he lost two of his beloved teachers in the tragedy. One person proudly declares he saved the lives of two kids. One comment which I still remember is from a person who was born on the day of mishap. Upon knowing that his birthday collides with such a mishap, he hasn't celebrated it ever since.
This week, on the day of my train journey, the sore thought was `what am I afraid of ?' That it will fall off a bridge or that I do not know how to swim. I looked at my son, who was bouncing up and down in the excitement of a trip by train. I did not share my apprehension with him. Maybe his joy would rub off on me and I will enjoy the trip, I thought.
The one thing about growing up is that we learn to hide our real emotions. And in the process forget what those real ones are. For me, this week, it worked. I stepped on to the train as if I have always been travelling on it. I read a book, spent time on my phone and watched my neighbours move around and settle for the night. A baby girl cried non-stop for two hours before her mom and grand mom finally put her to sleep. In that commotion, a lot of my fright was forgotten.
In the return journey, again by train, I watched my girl colour her drawing book with ease. My son was reading a book we bought in the train. In the opposite seat, a man was snoring heavily resting his hands on a fat book on Upanishads and a lady was trying to catch up on a little sleep in dozens of positions. A few elderly men were chatting away, they must have met here and made friends. Every few minutes, a phone rings or a music plays. The fat man at the aisle seat towards the front have not stopped munching for a long time. Maybe there is someone in here who lost a near one to a train tragedy. I searched many faces. Outside the window, the bridges came and passed by. In the night sky outside, I could make out a lake brightened up with lights and boats. Maybe this is how life moves on...
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