Suddenly I noticed the young man sitting atop the railing on the side of railway tracks near Santholia railway crossing. A few minutes ago, I had got down from the Tata Sumo with 23-year old Poonjanan Rana at the wheels when he had to halt due to the crossing gates down, denying passage to proceed.
This the first of the five railway crossings we had to encounter before we touched down at Bongaon, our destination over the next few hours. Alam and myself got out to stretch out limbs a bit. I crossed over the track and reached the other side and that is when I noticed Satwan atop the railing.
He quickly smiled when I helloed him and said: "What are you doing at this hour?" just as a conversation starter.
"Just like that," he replied without hesitation.
"From this village?"
"No. Am from Bareilley, Uttar Pradesh," he responded.
"Then, what are you doing here? Came from Bareilley to sit on the railing?" I joked.
He was not offended, but said: "This is my inlaws place."
"Oh! Visiting sasural! (inlaws)," I quipped.
He smiled as a response.
"Then, why are you sitting on the railing? Are you expecting someone in the train about to come?"
I asked because the station was hardly 100 metres away to his right from where he was sitting.
"Nothing of that sort. Just time-passing."
When queried further, Satwan said that his wife has also come along with him and she is at home assisting her mother in cooking.
"Instead of sitting at home, I decided to come here. My home is right across there," he pointed towards his left.
He may not be in his mid-twenties. Perhaps with no worries, he is deriving pleasure just by sitting on the railings of a railway track. What is cooking in his mind? I wonder.
Am sure, he is least bothered by what anyone is thinking about him.
I recross the railway track since there is no sign of any approaching train.
There is a small tea shop and two men are smoking beedis and sipping tea from mud cups.
"How frequently trains pass through this track?" I ask generally.
They exchange glances and look at me.
"How does it matter?" one of them asks.
Yes, how does it matter.
Another set of carefree people.
Least worried - rightly so - about what happens around them.
What were they doing?
Nothing, pat comes the reply.
Why am I worried about what they are upto?
This nagging has to stop.
I smile and retreat.
I know this inquisitiveness will not go away. Maybe, its inborn or second nature.
Good or bad? Don't know.
***
Noticing the milestone on the National Highway 35 for the first time since leaving Kolkota more than an hour ago, asked Rana to halt. We were passing through Barasat, in 24 Parganas.
Actually, it was Rana who spotted the milestone and alerted us.
We failed to spot the milestone because it was half hidden behind wooden boxes kept on both sides.
The boxes contained some colourless broken clay idols.
I needed an establishment shot - a legacy gathered from TV news reporting to prove that the crew had actually been to the site which it claims to have gone! If anywhere to ask did I really travel in this region and on this stretch, I can flash this milestone with or without me in the frame as a proof. Silly, no doubt. If others don't believe, so what? But it is humane seeking approval of one's actions.
I shot a few frames of the milestone. Two youngsters came running towards and demanded that they also photographed. I obliged. I looked around and that's when I saw Juma Pal, the young girl sitting inside a hut with a boy, a lady and another gent.
"See there," someone said from behind. I turned around to see Parimol Pal, the lanky old, bald man, covering his lower half only.
The toothless man asked me to follow him a few steps from the high road into the hut.
It was a workshop where Juma and others were making idols from clay.
The girl looked quickly and avoided any further eye contact.
Parimol Pal began explaining his art of idol making. They were making not Kali maa, but Ganpati and Radha-Krishna pairs.
"Stopped going to school?" I asked Juma as she was introduced to me by the old man.
She nodded.
Why?
She did not respond.
"Are you happy doing this? Don't you miss your friends who are at school now?"
She looked up. Hesitated a few seconds.
"I studied upto seventh class."
Then why did she stop?
"No money at home to send me to school," she replied.
"She is gainfully employed," chipped in Parimol Pal, her uncle.
Is she?
I preferred silence.
How cruel is this world?
Why this young girl be denied of education beyond what she had done?
What is her father? Is he alive or .....
How much she must be making through this idol making?
The boy, slightly elder to Juma, waved at me with a request to photograph him.
I did.
The woman and man at the back busy with their work also posed for some photos.
I thanked them and walked out.
Who am I question them?
What makes me think that Juma's life will not be good because she has discontinued her education?
My mother's face flashed instantly. She did not study beyond class five.
Her younger brother - my uncle - used to narrate at times how my mother was such a dullard that she did not know even how to copy from his slate in exams. Yes, they studied in same class, before he moved forward.
If only she had studied a little hard ....
If only she had learnt how to copy at least ....
If only she was educated adequately, she would not have been duped by her inlaws to affix her chicken scrawl signature on property documents - that she did not and could not read and assimilate -that belonged to herlate husband - my father - and rightfully would have been hers - and mine today.
Eyes welled up.
I looked back at Juma and found her hazy image.
I wish she does not become like my mother.
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