Inside my underwear. I have used the remaining two thousand to finance the trip. From it I have paid for my clothes, my ticket and the game for Salim, and now I will pay the porter and buy some food and drink. I take a quick look at the loose notes in my front pocket. I reckon I will have just enough to take an auto-rickshaw from Bandra Terminus to Salim's chawl in Ghatkopar.
Won't Salim be surprised to see me arrive in a three-wheeler instead of the local train? And when he sees the game, I hope he doesn't faint from happiness.
Platform number five is more crowded than Super Bazaar. Hawkers are out in as much force as touts outside a government office. Passengers hunt for their names on the reservation chart with the same fervour as students scanning examination results. I find that the railway department has completely mangled my name, making it T. M. Ram. I am happy, nevertheless, to see that I have been allotted lower berth three in coach S7.
The coach is almost at the end of the long train, and the porter is tired and sweating by the time we enter it. I settle down on my designated berth, which is right next to the door, and arrange the suitcase neatly in the space underneath. I pay the porter twenty rupees. He argues for more, points out the long distance from the station's entrance to the coach, and I tip him a further two rupees. Having disposed of the porter, I survey the scene around me.
My cabin has a total of six berths. One above me, two in front of me and two on the side. Sitting on the lower berth opposite me is a family of four, a father, mother and two children – a boy, around my age, and a girl, slightly older. The father is a middle-aged Marwari businessman dressed in the trademark black waistcoat and black cap. He has bushy eyebrows, a pencil moustache, and a stern expression on his face. His wife is of a similar age and is equally grim looking. She wears a green sari and a yellow blouse and looks at me with suspicious eyes. The boy is tall and gangly and looks friendly, but it is the girl sitting next to the window who draws my attention like a magnet. She is thin and fair, wearing a blue salwar kameez with the chunni pulled down over her chest. Her expressive eyes are lined with kohl. She has a flawless complexion and lovely lips. She is the most beautiful girl I have seen in a long time. One who demands a second look. And a third. I think I can lose myself in those bewitching eyes of hers.
But before I can reflect on her beauty any further, my attention is distracted by a baby who starts crying loudly. It is a baby boy, just a few months old, sitting on the side berth in his mother's lap.
The mother is a young, morose-looking woman wearing a crumpled red sari. It looks as if she is travelling alone. She tries to calm the baby with a rubber pacifier, but the baby continues to wail.
Finally she pushes up her blouse and offers a breast to the baby's lips. He suckles contentedly and she rocks him to sleep. From my seat I glimpse the underside of her plump brown breast and it makes my mouth dry, till I catch the Marwari businessman looking directly at me and I shift my eyes to the window behind her.
A tea vendor enters the compartment. I am the only one who asks for a cup. He dishes out tepid tea in an earthen receptacle, which tastes vaguely of mud. He is followed by a newspaper boy.
The businessman purchases a copy of the Times of India. His son buys an Archie comic. I buy the latest issue of Starburst from my fast-dwindling change.
The train gives a final whistle and begins to move off, an hour and a half behind schedule. I glance at my watch, even though I can clearly see 18:30 displayed on the platform's digital clock.
I shake and twist my wrist, hoping that the others, particularly the girl, will notice that I am wearing a brand new Kasio digital watch, made in Japan, with day and date, which cost me a whopping two hundred rupees in Palika Bazaar.
The father immerses himself in the newspaper, the son in his comic. The mother starts making arrangements for the family's dinner. The other young mother has gone off to sleep, the baby still glued to her breast. I pretend to read the film magazine. It is open at the centrefold, which displays the latest sex symbol, Poonam Singh, in a bikini, but I have no interest in her vital assets. I keep casting furtive glances at the girl, who is looking abstractedly at the urban scenery rushing past the window. She doesn't look at me even once.
At eight pm a black-waistcoated ticket examiner enters the compartment. He asks for all our tickets. I whip mine out with a flourish, but he doesn't even read it. He simply punches it and returns it to me. As soon as he has gone, the mother opens up rectangular cardboard boxes containing food. Lots of it. I see shrivelled puris, yellow potatoes, red pickles and dessert. The mouth-watering aroma of home-made gulab jamuns and barfees fills the compartment. I am beginning to feel hungry too, but the pantry boy has still not come to take orders for dinner.
Perhaps I should have picked up something from the station.
The Marwari family eats heartily. The father gobbles puri after puri. The mother polishes off the golden-yellow potatoes, taking a juicy chilli pickle after each bite. The boy makes a beeline for the soft gulab jamuns and even slurps up the sugary syrup. Only the girl eats lightly. I lick my lips in silence. Strangely enough, the boy offers me a couple of puris, but I decline politely. I have heard many stories of robbers disguised as passengers who offer drug-laced food to their fellow travellers and then make off with their money. And there is no reason why boys who read Archie comics cannot be robbers. Though if the girl had offered me food I might – no, I would – have accepted.
After finishing dinner, the boy and girl start playing a board game called Monopoly. The father and mother sit side by side and chat. They discuss the latest soaps on TV, something about buying property and travelling to Goa for a holiday.
I pat my abdomen gently where fifty thousand rupees in crisp new notes nestle inside the waistband of my underwear, and feel the power of all that money seep insidiously into my stomach, my intestines, my liver, lungs, heart and brain. The hunger gnawing at my stomach disappears miraculously.
Looking at the typical middle-class family scene in front of me, I don't feel like an interloper any more. I am no longer an outsider peeping into their exotic world, but an insider who can relate to them as an equal, talk to them in their own language. Like them, I too can now watch middle-class soaps, play Nintendo and visit Kids Mart at weekends.
Train journeys are about possibilities. They denote a change in state. When you arrive, you are no longer the same person who departed. You can make new friends en route, or find old enemies; you may get diarrhoea from eating stale samosas or cholera from drinking contaminated water. And, dare I say it, you might even discover love. Sitting in berth number three of coach S7 of train 2926A, with fifty thousand rupees tucked inside my underwear, the tantalizing possibility which tickled my senses and thrilled my heart was that I might, just might, be about to fall in love with a beautiful traveller in a blue salwar kameez. And when I say love, I don't mean the unrequited, unequal love that we profess for movie stars and celebrities. I mean real, practical, possible love. Love which does not end in tears on the pillow, but which can fructify into marriage. And kids. And family holidays in Goa.