Deepak Gets A Job
Photo: Karan Madhok
Short story : ‘His eyes were even sadder than the lady on the train. Yet there was some resemblance between the two, a similar pain that both of their eyes had been accustomed to.’
As he flipped through the morning newspaper, Deepak thought about what he should do today. He could head back over to the maidaan and see if there was anyone playing a game of football or cricket. He could stroll through the market, maybe even stop by at Rashmi’s place for a cup of tea, or a glass of sweet lassi at Amarinder’s dhaba. He was sure to get the latest gossip there.
He thought of seeing the new movie down at the cinema, but then remembered that he’d already seen it thrice. This was a little vice of his: the movies captivated him and took him away to a place that he did not know. There was a time when he had even thought of running away to Bombay and seeing if he could get a job as a spot-boy with a movie company. But who had the time and patience to do that? Deepak preferred it the way it is now, this aloofness and this unpredictability.
It was then that he spotted, lying under a copy of Cricket Samrat and tin of coconut oil, a telegram which had arrived earlier that week from an uncle in Dehradun, saying that he had gotten a job for Deepak with the tourism department. It sounded dull, but then there was always the chance that the position involved travelling around the Doon valley. Deepak loved that area. The trees, the rolling hills, the mist as it crept over the mountains each evening in the cold winter months, the wildlife.
That morning, Deepak had been up since five-thirty. He had washed up in a hurry, but for no obvious reason. It had seemed like any other day, one that Deepak was free to take in with careless abandon, despite the fact that he was still very much unemployed and surviving solely on a monthly stipend that came from a generous uncle in Roorkee.
The cold water stung his face. As Deepak dried himself, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Hollow cheeks and light blue eyes looked back at him. A slight smile crept up on his face as he remembered the girls in school running after him, giggling. Always popular with the ladies, they said. He’ll make it someplace big, that boy.
If only they could see him now.
There had been a rainstorm the night before. Outside the door of his, he saw a small mutt lying in a puddle lapping up muddy remains from the previous night’s storm. Deepak loved it after it rained heavily. It made everything seem fresh and clean.
He made his way across the railway tracks and over to the maidaan. When he neared the field, he heard the pleasant sound of leather against willow. The cricket net practice had begun early.
Deepak walked across the field to his usual spot where he practiced his push-ups and sit-ups. He had made it a regular wont, these early morning exercises. First, he stretched out his limbs, letting the morning air soak in to his shoulders and forearms.
It made him feel relaxed, for this was the one time where it was just him and a solitary task that did not involve anyone else. These exercises somehow took his mind off the day’s anxieties ahead. He liked limbering up and being at peace with himself as the day began. Staying fit made him feel like he had achieved a little something.
And when he was done, it was just another day. Just like every day.
“You don’t seem to be the kind who likes to work,” she said softly. Her words had a calming effect on Deepak. He did not feel uncomfortable any more.
“I am indifferent. I go where I please. No one has any ties to me.”
The telegram, however, had shaken him out of his daily lethargy—now he did have something to achieve. At least a pleasant train journey.
He locked up the house and told his neighbours that he would return in three days, though Mrs. Shankar was busy trying to give her screaming children a bath, and Deepak doubted she had heard a word he said. He then dropped by Amit’s place, but he had gone to the movies.
Amit was an on old school friend and accomplice in Deepak’s many feeble attempts at pick-pocketing, and the two friends had often got together to snip tourists back in their Meerut days. Amit lived down the road near the halwai shop. His father was a clerk at the state bank and had on many occasions tried to get him a job as an assistant to the manager—but to no avail. Not that Amit could care one way or the other. He was like Deepak: always undecided about where they wished to go.
But Amit was even more unpredictable. Deepak remembered the time Amit ran away from home to try and go to Delhi, on the night before he was set to present himself for an interview down at the post office. He didn’t make it beyond Muzaffarnagar, and when he returned home his father beat him and yelled at him for hours.
Then, the very next day, Amit tried to jump aboard the Rajdhani and flee to Amritsar. He was thrown off the train for being ticket-less as quick as he had boarded. He spent the next three days down at the limestone quarry where his uncle worked.
Amit was a jovial fellow, though. He didn’t care much for work, but always had a smile on his face and would help Deepak out in any way he could.
Alone, then, Deepak made his way to the railway station near the boot factory, where every day at around noon a train stopped on its way to Dehradun to pick up the few hapless souls who dared venture out from this dull, dormant town.
As he approached the platform Deepak saw sitting on a bench a young lady dressed in a simple green salwar-kameez, with a purple and orange dupatta wrapped across her neck. He had never seen her before, but as he slowly came near her, she turned and looked at him. She had the prettiest eyes that he had ever seen—and he had seen many. They were even larger and darker than those of any movie heroine. But, he noticed, there was also an element of sadness in them.
She had her hair done up in a bun, and her lips moved cautiously as Deepak approached. He did not smile. He thought it wrong. He did not know her, and did not want her to think that he was intentionally looking at her.
But right then her eyes moved as if frightened, like a deer at the edge of a thicket, hearing a sound far away. And as an impulse Deepak set his bag down and looked away in the opposite direction as if something else had caught his attention.
A few seconds later, he warily turned his head around, pretending to be looking across the horizon for any signs of the train. She was still looking at him, not in fear, but in some sort of apprehension and amazement, as if he was the stranger in this town and he had disturbed her tranquility with his presence. Deepak felt awkward as he had never felt before.
“Are you waiting for the train?” he said suddenly, as if the words had been forced out.
She moved, once again, startled, like she had just been broken from a trance.
“Yes,” she answered. “And yourself?”
“I am going to Dehradun to see an uncle,” said Deepak.
She did not respond. Deepak felt like a fool; the silence pierced through him like something he had never felt before. Meanwhile, she was still looking at him with those sad eyes. The seconds ticked away like hours.
The shrill whistle of the train shattered the silence and brought them back to reality.
“The train is here,” said Deepak slowly, in a way people state the obvious.
She rose from the bench, and Deepak picked up his bag. The train came to a halt, and both of them got on. For some reason Deepak followed her and sat down in the seat facing hers. The conductor came around and asked if they were going to Dehradun. She did not say anything, and so Deepak said yes, buying two tickets.
Out the window, the town soon made way for the endless wheat and corn fields that occupy the space from here to Dehradun.
After a while she spoke, softly, suggestively. “What are you going to Dehra for?”
“My uncle has a job for me.”
“You don’t seem to be the kind who likes to work,” she said softly. Her words had a calming effect on Deepak. He did not feel uncomfortable any more.
“I am indifferent. I go where I please. No one has any ties to me.”
As he came near, Deepak saw the person’s face in the moonlight. It was not his uncle, but an old man: his face covered with scars, sitting by himself as if expecting someone. Someone else.
He didn’t know why he had said that; it just seemed like the right thing to say.
She looked out the window at the fields whipping past. The mild afternoon sun rested on her face, and the bars of the window cast awkward shadows across her cheeks. But her eyes were still sad, as if she was thinking of someone, or something, that bothered or saddened her.
“Where do you live?” Deepak asked.
She said nothing. He had lost her again. She gazed out across the miles of green and brown landscape stretching out like the ocean. Then, the edges of her mouth began to curl up into a smile. It was as if Deepak was not even there, and he dared not disturb her from her peace.
The time went slowly without anyone speaking. Finally, she fell asleep. Deepak continued to watch her. She looked beautiful when she slept, he thought. Where was she from? Why was she going to Dehradun? He wanted to know everything about her.
The train stopped briefly in another small town, and from outside the barking of a dog and the yelling of a peanut hawker woke her.
“Do you have family in Dehradun?” Deepak asked.
“No,” she said solemnly, looking out the window at the hawker as he walked past the train and made his way into the fields.
“Why are you going then?”
“To see someone.”
Deepak didn’t answer. The conductor made his rounds again, glancing for a second at her and then moving on down the compartment.
Then, after what seemed like an hour, Deepak excused himself to go to the restroom. The train lurched and screamed as it went across an old iron bridge. We must be close to Dehradun now, Deepak thought, as he waddled down the corridor.
When he returned to his seat, she was gone. All that was left in the space she had occupied was her dupatta, purple and orange in colour. Deepak presumed she must have gone to the restroom as well, but when twenty minutes elapsed and she did not return, he got up, wrapped the dupatta tightly around his right fist, and began to check the other compartments.
He asked the conductor if he had seen her, but he had not. None of the other passengers had seen her go by. Deepak began to feel afraid. But why? He knew nothing of her, so why was her safety or whereabouts his own concern?
The train soon arrived at Dehradun. Deepak scrambled off quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again on the platform. But it was dark now, and the lights of the nearly deserted station seemed especially odd and disturbing. All the passengers looked like walking ghosts.
There was she? Why did she have to leave? Deepak turned around and around on the platform in despair.
Then he began to walk slowly towards the gate where his uncle would be waiting for him. The cloth wrapped tightly around his right hand, that dupatta, felt odd to carry. He passed by a tea stall from which the sweet smell of elaichi wafted deep into his nostrils.
Then in the distance, the lights of Dehradun flickered like diamonds, and from somewhere the haunting tunes of an old film song echoed from a cassette player.
As he left the confines of the platform Deepak saw a lone figure sitting on a bench near the ticket booth. He paused for a moment, and then hurriedly began to approach. As he came near, Deepak saw the person’s face in the moonlight. It was not his uncle, but an old man: his face covered with scars, sitting by himself as if expecting someone. Someone else.
After a short pause, Deepak began to walk away.
“Bhai saheb,” the old man said.
Deepak stopped and turned around to face him. The dull light from the overhead street lamp covered his features like a blanket. He looked at Deepak in an odd, almost eerie manner.
The old man said nothing, but rose and came towards Deepak, one arm outstretched. His eyes were even sadder than the lady on the train. Yet there was some resemblance between the two, a similar pain that both of their eyes had been accustomed to. The old man just stood there, the streetlight falling over him, almost burdening him with its dark, heavy light.
“Please,” he murmured.
Then, as if being directed by some unknown will, Deepak unraveled the dupatta and placed it in the old man’s shriveled hands, hands that seemed to be begging something from him. Instantly the scars on the old man’s face seemed to relax. It was as if he had been reunited with a piece of himself, long ago forsaken.
Then, without a word, he slowly retreated into the shadows of the night and was gone.
Deepak remained there, motionless, in the middle of the empty station. The light now turned a dull yellow.
He smiled. He knew he had succeeded in something, something unknown, a story he wouldn’t ever be able to complete himself. But he felt content.
He turned and walked away towards the beckoning lights ahead.
***
Jamie Alter is a sports writer and journalist in the digital world, having covered cricket around the world including three World Cups. After nearly five years working for ESPNcricinfo, Jamie served as Sports Editor of the Times of India Digital, Cricbuzz, Cricketnext and most recently as Group Sports Editor (Digital) at Zee Media. He also also authored two cricket-related books and dabbled in acting. You can find him on Twitter: @alter_jamie.
