There was no station, trains wouldn’t stop here, and yet the railway workers had given it a name. We used it too: Andaahalt.
Andaa, meaning eggs. There was a village of the Mahatos at the feet of two squat hillocks near the Andaahalt, where chickens would wander in and out of homes. The Mahatos would travel all the way to the Saturday market at distant Bhurkunda to sell chicken and eggs. Sometimes they would tuck their favourite rooster cocks under their arms to take part in cockfights. But this was not the reason for BF 332 being named Andaahalt.
As a matter of fact we had no interest in the eggs of Mahatogaon.
Our contractor had an arrangement with the railways. He had a trolley, too, that could be pushed along the tracks. Flying its red flag, it would trundle along the railway lines and deliver our things. Among these were heaps of eggs. Bhagwatilal would boil the lot.
But this was not the reason for the name either. The name came from the rising heap of shells from the boiled eggs beyond the barbed wire. The shells were growing into mounds.
We were under the impression that the first two letters of BF 332 did not stand for any kind of code, but for breakfast.
There was a PoW camp in Ramgarh then, with Italian prisoners surrounded by bayonets and barbed wire. Sometimes they would be loaded onto the train and dispatched somewhere unknown. We of course had no idea where, or why.
All we knew was that a train would stop at dawn.
Checking the contractor’s letter, we would point to the baskets of eggs and tell Bhagwatilal, “Three hundred and thirty breakfasts.”
Bhagwatilal would count out six hundred and sixty eggs, and twenty-five extra ones. In case a few turned out to be rotten. Then, when they had become hard as bricks after being boiled, he would join hands with three of the server porters to shell them.
Those were the shells that would pile up beyond the barbed wire.
The train would come to a stop early in the morning, and at once the military police would jump off on both sides to stand guard, their bayonets pointed skyward.
The foreign prisoners in their striped garments would disembark one by one, holding large mugs and enamel plates.
The three server porters would turn two large drums upside down and use them as tables, standing behind them. The prisoners would line up for breakfast. One of the servers would pour coffee into their mugs, one of them would put two slices of bread on the plate, and the third, two eggs. After which they would get back into the train. The guard in his khaki bush-shirt with identity tag on the shoulder would blow his whistle and wave his flag, and the train would leave.
None of the Mahatos ever ventured near the train. Stopping sowing maize seeds in their fields in the distance, they would straighten up and stare uncomprehendingly.
After the train had left we would leave the tent in Bhagwatilal’s care and go off—sometimes toward the Mahatos’ village in search of vegetables. They would grow mustard, eggplant, and gourd on rocky slopes.
Overnight, Andaahalt turned into a full-fledged halt. Gravel was spread next to the tracks to raise the ground and make a platform out of the area enclosed in barbed wire.
Now it wasn’t just the PoW trains but also military specials that halted at times, carrying American soldiers in gaberdine trousers, their hip pockets stuffed with money bags. The military police would get off the train, walk up and down the platform, reeling off a joke or two, while the soldiers would line up the same way for their coffee, bread, and eggs. Then they would go back into their compartments, the guard in the khaki bush-shirt would blow his whistle and wave his flag, and I would run to get the supply form approved by the major.
The train would go off, none of us would know where or in which direction.
That day, too, the American soldiers’ train came to a halt the same way. The three porters were serving coffee, bread, and eggs. Bhagwatilal was keeping a watch on whether anyone was tossing away his eggs for being rotten, or his bread because he had got the hard slices from the very end of the loaf.
Suddenly my gaze fell on a scene on the other side of the barbed wire fence.
One of the Mahato children was staring at us with round eyes from a spot behind the fence. I had seen this little boy once, with a piece of iron tied to his loincloth, sitting on the back of a young bullock.
The boy was either gazing at the train in wonder. Or at the red-faced American soldiers.
Spotting him suddenly, one of the soldiers shouted, “Hey!” and at once the boy in the loincloth raced away toward his village. Some of the American soldiers were laughing at the top of their voices.
I thought the boy would never come back.
The Mahatos never came, not one of them. They only paused during their work in the fields to straighten up and stare at the train.
But then, the next time the train came, the next time it halted, I found the boy with the iron piece knotted into his loincloth standing near the barbed wire once again. There was another boy with him, this one slightly older. He had a zinc amulet hanging round his neck from a red thread. I’d been to the market at Bhurkunda once, they sell piles of them there, heaps of vermilion, amulets of brass and bronze and zinc, coloured threads hanging from poles, bead necklaces. I had seen a vendor, his legs caked with dust, walking toward the Mahatos’ village in the distance carrying piles of beads on his shoulders.
The boys were looking with amazement at the American soldiers through the barbed wire. The boy from the first day had a fearful expression, and his knees were ready to turn him into a speeding fawn the moment anyone’s gaze held a touch of admonition.
I was walking around with the form, smiling at the Major to keep him happy whenever I had the chance. Standing at his compartment door sipping his coffee, one of the soldiers commented on the sight of the boys to the GI next to him: “Awful!”
This had not occurred to me all these days. They worked on the fields happily, hunted civets with their arrows or catapults, listened to their own songs, drank, and, sometimes, stood up in protest, as taut as a highly-strung bow. Slim bodies in loincloths, dark and rough. But that damned GI’s “awful” stung me. I was furious with the two boys.
One of the soldiers sang a snatch of a song loudly, one or two soldiers were laughing, another one drained his mug of coffee and winked at the server with a request to refill it. The guard walked up to find out how much longer it would take. He was a Punjabi, but he added a nasal twang to sound American when speaking to the Major.
Then the whistle blew, the flag waved, everyone piled into the train quickly, including the military policemen with the broad red armbands.
After the train had left, it was back to the desolate emptiness, and only the barbed wire remained, like cactus in a desert.
Another train arrived a few days later. This time it was full of Italian prisoners of war being transferred somewhere from Ramgarh. We neither knew where, nor asked.
They were dressed in different, striped garments, unsmiling soldiers constantly guarded by military policemen with upraised rifles. We were a little scared. In Bhurkunda we had heard stories about how one of them had tried to dress in a Bengali-style dhoti-and-kurta and escape. He had failed. Being a Bengali, I felt a little more afraid.
After the train had left I noticed that the two boys across the barbed wire had been joined by a fifteen-year-old girl in a short sari and two men who had abandoned their work in the fields. They had a conversation among themselves, laughed, and then moved away toward the Mahatos’ village like a gurgling stream.
One, two, five, and then I found about ten of the people from Mahatogaon running from the fields as soon as the train arrived next time around. Maybe they knew from the khaki in the windows. Two passenger trains would flash past like mail trains every day, and two goods trains would trundle along. But no, the people of Mahatogaon never crowded around the station waiting for them to stop.
One day I asked the oldest of the Mahatos to send people to our tent at Andaahalt with vegetables, prawn, and fish for us to buy.
“We won’t stop our work on the farm,” the old man had replied with a smile.
Which was why I looked at them now with astonishment. At the dark-skinned men in their loincloths, and the women in their short saris. Only the bare-bodied old Mahato had a pair of shoes on, made for him by Mridha from the village. They lined up along the barbed wire.
The train had arrived by then. The American soldiers had leapt off and were moving forward in a queue with their mugs and plates.
Two hundred and eighteen breakfasts were ready at BF 332. BF 332, meaning Andaahalt.
There was a nip in the air. The hills in the distance were wrapped in mufflers of fog. The trees were washed green by the dew.
One of the soldiers expressed his appreciation in a Yankee accent.
Another of them was standing outside the carriage, staring intently at the destitution across the barbed wire. Suddenly setting his coffee mug down on the steps leading into the train, he put his hand into his hip pocket, took a shining eight-anna coin out, and tossed it toward the Mahatos.
They looked at the soldier in surprise, exchanged glances with one another, and continued to gaze in wonder.
As they were about to return in silence after the train had left, I said, “The sahib left a baksheesh for you. Take it.”
They exchanged glances again, but none of them came forward.
Picking the coin up, I handed it to the old man. He stared at me blankly, and then left in silence with the rest. None of them spoke.
I hated this servility to the contractor. Not a soul anywhere, not a single passenger train halted, just Bhagwatilal and three porters occupied the tent. Deserted, completely deserted. The earth was unfriendly, the afternoon sky looked ominous. I was spoiling for a fight.
The people from Mahatogaon didn’t come anywhere near us. Sometimes I would go to their village to buy vegetables and small fish. They wouldn’t come to our camp to sell, although they walked six miles to the Bhurkunda market.
There was no news of a train for a few days. Quiet, so quiet.
One day the boy with the piece of iron knotted into his loincloth appeared and asked, “No tiren, Babu?”
“It’ll come,” I chuckled.
Why blame the boy, here in this land of low hillocks and rough terrain, you had to walk four miles through bushes and shrubs just for a glimpse of a bus filled with locals. In the morning, a passenger train whistled past without slowing down even slightly. The down train in the evening didn’t stop either. But still we rushed out of our tent for a look at the indistinct faces in the window. We were choking without the company of people, of fresh faces.
Which was why we were both perturbed and happy when we heard that a special train carrying American soldiers was on its way.
A few days later, the Military Special steamed in. The GIs jumped out, lining up to collect their bread, eggs, and mugs of coffee.
Suddenly I discovered that all of Mahatogaon seemed to have gathered outside the barbed wire fence. Twenty, maybe thirty of them, who knew how many, if you counted the children. Even the women in their short saris stared with befuddled eyes. I felt apprehensive at the sight. I used to feel afraid whenever Bhagwatilal or the three server porters wanted to go to the Mahatos’ village.
There was no platform. Only a bed of gravel had been laid to make it easier to get in and out of the train. The American soldiers were strolling up and down with their coffee mugs. Some of them had fixed their eyes on the dark-skinned people of Mahatogaon.
Suddenly one of them went up to Bhagwatilal, took his wallet out of his hip pocket, extracted a two-rupee note, and asked, “Do you have coins?” Soldiers didn’t like carrying coins—they would always tell the shopkeeper or vendor or taxi driver to keep the change. I’d seen this often in Ranchi.
Bhagwatilal was giving the soldier change in the form of one-anna, two-anna and four-anna coins, when I suddenly saw the boy with the iron piece in his loincloth stretching his arm out through the barbed wire, smiling, and asking for something.
At once the soldier took the coins from Bhagwatilal and tossed them at the crowd.
By then, I had got the approval on the supply form, and the guard had blown the whistle.
When the train had begun to move, I turned toward the Mahatos.
They were still standing in silence, looking on. Then the boy with the iron piece in his loincloth and the boy with the amulets around his neck slipped through the barbed wire and threw themselves on the coins scattered on the bed of red gravel.
At that moment the old Mahato in shoes shouted, “Khabardar.” He screamed his admonition so loudly that even I was startled.
But the boys paid no heed. They had already gathered as many of the one-anna, two-anna, and four-anna coins as possible. The smiles on their faces were like tender grains of corn. The entire crowd of men and women were smiling.
Furious at this, the old man launched a tirade in their native tongue. The crowd laughed.
Glowering with rage, the village elder stalked off homeward all by himself. The people of Mahatogaon left too, gurgling and laughing like a mountain stream.
As soon as they left, Andaahalt turned silent and desolate again. Sometimes I would feel desperately unhappy. In the distance were the hills, mahua groves, a tiny stream, and, beyond the shrubs and bushes, the green farmland of the Mahato village. Beautiful to look at, utterly beautiful. Dark-skinned people in loincloths dotted the landscape.
Meanwhile the American trains arrived frequently, the soldiers leaving after their regular breakfast of bread and eggs and coffee. The inhabitants of Mahatogaon crowded around the barbed wire—“Baksheesh, saab, baksheesh, saab.”
A number of rustic voices cried out in unison.
I stopped suddenly as I was going up to the Major to get his approval on the form.
Not just the children, several of the grown-up men had stretched their arms out as well. Even a woman with an alluring body in a short sari.
When I was buying vegetables earlier, the same woman had asked me with a smile, “When is the train coming?”
Sometimes they would appear in a group even when there was no train, waiting for a while and then leaving.
By then the three or four American soldiers with stripes on their shoulders had tossed fistfuls of coins in their direction. Without waiting for the train to leave, they threw themselves at the money. In the stampede, some of them scratched their arms and legs on the barbed wire, while others had their loincloths ripped.
I observed them closely after the train had left. Half of Mahatogaon seemed to have gathered here. All of them were smiling, each of them seemed to have got some money. But I could not find the village elder anywhere among them. The old man in the shoes had not come. The boys had not thrown away the coins despite his objections and rebuke. He was probably too angry to come back.
I savored the thought of the old man ploughing the earth all alone on the farm.
Somehow, we passed our days, the five of us, including the cook Bhagwatilal, at the desolate Andaahalt camp. Every now and then, a train packed with soldiers arrived, stopped, and left. The people of Mahatogaon clustered around the barbed wire, stretching out their arms and screaming, “Baksheesh, saab, baksheesh, saab.”
Sometimes the Mahato village elder appeared too. Abandoning the fields, he would stride furiously toward the crowd, brushing the dirt off his hands and scolding them in agitation. When they paid no attention, he stared at them in helpless protest.
But no one spared him a glance. Laughing uproariously, the soldiers would toss coins from their pockets toward the crowds. The inhabitants of Mahatogaon would fling themselves at the money, bickering at one another. The soldiers then would be even more amused.
Eventually, I noticed that the old man in shoes no longer turned up there. I used to feel a certain pride at the fact that he would be furious with them, that he would not come anymore. Because the behavior would annoy us—Bhagwatilal and me. We felt a sense of shame within us. The soldiers probably mistook them for beggars from their tattered, filthy clothes. And I was very upset that they did.
That particular day they were screaming “Baksheesh, baksheesh” as usual from the other side of the barbed wire, while I was chatting with khaki bush-shirt-clad Janakinath, the guard of the train. An officer marching past us briskly spat out, “Bloody beggars,” when he heard them screaming.
Janakinath and I exchanged glances. Red with humiliation, we could barely lift our eyes, burning with impotent rage.
Bloody beggars, bloody beggars.
All my anger was channelled toward the Mahatos. As soon as the train left, I charged toward them with Bhagwatilal. Tucking away the coins they had picked up, they left, laughing.
All this while I had swept away my embarrassment for them with a pride which stood as tall as a mountain before my eyes in the form of the village elder of the Mahatos.
All my agony abated soon afterward.
I got the news on my way to meet the contractor at Bhurkunda.
Two of the server porters were kicking away the drums we used as tables to the other side of the barbed wire. Another one was dismantling the tent. Delivering a mighty kick on one of the drums, Bhagwatilal said, “Khel khatam, the game is over.”
Wheeling around at a sudden uproar, I saw the people of Mahatogaon running toward us.
We looked at them in surprise. Bhagwatilal laughed loudly for some reason.
By then they had gathered along the barbed wire.
At once we heard a whistle, followed by the sound of an approaching train.
The train had rounded the curve and was coming up to Andaahalt, the windows lined with khaki uniforms.
We felt disturbed and perplexed. Had the Bhurkunda office forgotten to inform us? Or was the news we had heard wrong?
The closer the train came, the more a strange sound seemed to echo. Not a sound, singing. Soon we discovered that the entire train, each and every soldier on it, were singing in chorus.
Bewildered, I looked alternately at the train and the barbed wire. And that was when my eye fell on the Mahato village elder. Merging with the crowd, he too had extended his arm through the fence and was screaming, “Baksheesh, saab, baksheesh, saab.”
They were yelling like lunatics, like beggars. They, and the old Mahato.
But unlike other days, the train filled with American soldiers did not stop at Andaahalt. Just like the passenger trains, it ignored us and whistled past. We knew the train wouldn’t stop anymore.
The train left. But everyone at Mahatogaon turned into beggars. All those people who lived off the soil—all of them had been turned into beggars.
