A SICK SIKH ON HL6

[My observation of a sick Sikh, aged around sixty six, waiting for Train No. HL6 on Platform No.6]

There was the Sardar, Standing in a corner of the Railway Station, mumbling something to the ticket collector. No, it did'nt tickle me to laughter. Instead, I was mentally distracted; both of us had a similar problem. I was waiting for a train, the now famous MMTS local, which was scheduled to arrive forty three minutes later. I was being massacred by boredom, patiently watching the sky go furious as rain water like bullets out from a Kalashnikov fired themselves onto everything, living and non-living. With my hand-kerchief perennially guarding my running nose, I looked at the Sardar, with curiosity, sans feline notions.

The Sardar was draped in a wet translucent white kaddhar shirt, supported by a black pant. His shirt revealed the contents within, a railway ticket, few currency notes and an antique looking cell phone. The best part of this sikh’s attire was undoubtedly the magnificent carbon black turban he wore. His eyes were pitch yellow. It seemed, a very small tinge of greenness would make him ‘Sony Ericsson’.

The train soon arrived. It was packed with vagabonds, who had made the compartment their home. The Sardar wriggled himself through and settled down in a seat along the aisle. Meanwhile, I had now positioned myself at a safe distance from him about a couple of blocks away.

The Sardar was impatient. He seemed to have an appointment with someone. He was busy, thinking furiously, fiddling with his long, grey beard. He had given it a thorough massage. Then his cell phone rang. He attended to the call, which , however, lasted just for 49 exact seconds. The cell phone was restored to its original place. Now, he had reached his peak of boredom. He got up, walked about the mundane compartment, occasionally shouting at the petite kids near the foot board. He was soon bored and sank back in his seat.

A few minutes passed and he was idling himself, looking up at the lights and the fans and at the graffiti on the walls outside. He was about to fall asleep when his cell phone gave a monotonous beep. Getting up from the seat and approaching the entrance of the compartment he unsheathed his cell phone, as if it was his ‘Kirpan’. He fiddled with its keys for sometime, shot furtive looks at it and he was soon chewing the phone’s antenna.

It was still raining. The train had picked up speed. I put on my hood. I looked like a Militant of the ku-klux-klan. This was the very first time that he had noticed me. Just then, some thing burst above the train. The Sardar looked outside. It was a cracker. Someone had thrown it from the over-bridge. Cursing him, he retreated from the foot board.

He then settled down for a short siesta ,until the train reached its destination...

to be continued.