Fathers and daughters

"Bhai, can you provide me some water from that bottle you have?" I turned around and it was an old man with puffy fair cheeks that had turned red from the Nagpur heat of around 40*C. I handed him the bottle. Water ran down his cheeks in small rivulets as he drank hungrily. He looked reasonably well off. Sky blue half shirt caked in sweat . Grey full pants that had seen better days but was pressed. A Titan watch. A ring with a topaz stone stuck on top. Dakshin express started to come in. He handed me the bottle hurriedly and started scanning the compartments. He had come to meet someone and I watched his expectant eyes rolling with the passing compartments. Must be his son or daughter, I surmised. The train stopped. The man shuffled across the station to where the door to the carriage S5 was there. His gaunt body was now straining above the heads of the red shirted luggage helpers and trying to find his child. Then she was at the door. His lips started quivering. He was having a hard time keeping back his tears. His hand trembled as he he shoved his sweat soaked handkerchief into the pocket. He raised his hand in an awkward gesture of recognition and hailing. He suddenly reminded me of that last scene of Sadma. Kamal at the railway station. His was face was sweating again, not all due to the heat. But also due to the burst of extreme happiness. He stood there transfixed. She took her time getting down. She wasn't all that young herself. Mid forties. A little plump. Saree, bindi and vermilion in the hair parting. I deduced she was coming home after a long while. She walked across to him. Senior men like him cannot hug. It just wasn't done during their days. She bends down with difficulty and touches his feet. He is still trembling as he lays his hand on her head. His tears roll. He is a very old man. There must be a history to his tears. He is unable to speak. She starts crying too. He tries to laugh. Spittle bursts out of his mouth. Pent up. Very pent up. He has been bottling it in for a long time, I guess. Probably some family issue. He tries gamely to pick her suitcase up. She mocks him in Marathi and then pulls up the handle to roll the suitcase alongside her. His tears are still rolling as they leave the station, walking slowly. The sun blazes the silver atop the train, unrelentingly. Men with daughters do have a difficult time. With their emotions. Once in a while.