Entourage

A relative comes home. The train has stopped at a nearby station for a few seconds and he's jumped on to the ground from the train, him being from Bengal and adept at doing all this. He walks up to the platform, crosses over to the exit, hails a bus passing by and just arrives. Pretty nifty for a guy who doesn't know much about Bangalore anyway. I remember another episode of tracks and platforms from far back. 1995. Man arrives at Howrah station. Man is supposed to travel with me to Mumbai. Behind him is entourage. Man travelling for first time alone, it seems. Bengali men, I tell you. Anyway, man searches for me and comes into the compartment where I am seated. Those days we didn't dare think of AC compartment and all that. Sleeper non AC it was. He sees me and grins. He let's out a whoop and lets out a happy expletive. Select an expletive in your mind. Anything will work. Then the father comes into the compartment and sits beside us. Father is not going but he wants to sit beside son and explain to me why I should take care of his son. His son is no longer spouting expletives but sitting like a 22 year old dumb boy. Glum face and all. Then mother comes and joins. Promptly starts crying. Sister joins and she searches for place to sit. So I give up my place and she sits. The family reunion takes place. The man had just separated from folks 25 seconds ago, by the way. Then the train let's out a whistle. I gently remind that they have to get down. They get up. There is a lot of hand catching, hand wringing, whining and yelping before they are finally out. The train has started to move slowly. They have come round towards the window and are holding on to the grills and not letting go. I am afraid for them. I motion them to let go. They ignore me and concentrate on the man. The man is saying the same thing again and again. Yes, he will call. Yes, he will write. Call. Write. Call. Write. I am starting to get angry with Alexander Graham Bell and Waterman now. By the way, let me also state that Missus also had come with her sister to see me off and they had disappeared seeing this melee. Of course, we weren't conjugally operating then, so cannot blame her. The train picks up speed. Entourage keep running at top speed beside the window. Call. Write. Tears. The train speeds off from the platform. But then, the driver may have left his purse behind or something, the train stops beyond the station, on the tracks. A minute later, huffing and puffing, the entourage is there, down there, on the tracks beside the stationery train. It is mighty funny and highly dangerous. I don't know to respond. I am agape. My jaw is on the floor. I cannot even pick it up. Call. Write. Call. Write. We reach our destination. Many weeks later I ask the man, how many letters did you write. He's drunk the fifth night continuous. He says, last three weeks, none. Bengali families have a message for themselves here somewhere.