Of biryani, booze and one thousand rupees...

This was one long hiatus- agreed and guilty as charged. This break has taught me few valuable lessons in life. Lessons I have learnt the hard way- fellow railway men are the best teachers I have encountered in these thirty five odd years of surviving in this planet. Our Union secret ballot elections for recognition have taught me that biryani and booze are far more valuable than ideologies and morals. That salaried class people can stoop so low in selling their votes for booze, biryani and one thousand rupees has struck us all hard- slaps on our faces.

Campaign of our dead CM for a union- he must be turning in his grave now!

We people who have been championing the cause of the less fortunate ones have been kicked out onto the platform. The Comrades who had braved the summer and campaign heat are dejected at the outcome, most of them gone into hiding. I wish I could have gone too. So here I am, seeking refuge. Every defeat is devastating. But losing to money power and ‘musli’ power ( I mean muscle power, as spelt by one of our rivals;) ) can make you go sleepless for ages. Not only the husband, everyone on road now looks at me as some kind of bubonic plague virus.

That is another poster..Poster wars have left us panting and wanting more ;)

Ladies in the office where so intent in laughing their cute backs off looking at me that someone really forgot her clasps dangling, playing peekaboo! And it was fun watching the tasmac brimming to full with rival union’s money and fellow railway ‘citizens’ oozing with booze. What is more- the ‘commoner’ who did not wish to sideline himself with any union made hay when the sun shone brightest- the day before elections. Watches, pots, suitcases…everything was traded for votes. The booth slips were distributed with secret folds- containing crisp thousand rupee note.

There were some who were given only three hundred rupees, the unlucky ones. And there was another rival union who were distributing umbrellas, pots and two hundred rupees. In all it rained gifts that day. As usual our Red Comrades were forbidden from doing anything that stupid and we hit the campaign trail with renewed vengeance. Every office we visited, I pulled up a stool, stood on it and gave my well-practised speech on not selling the votes. The tragedy of it- balancing on a squeaking stool, yelling at the top of your lungs, remembering your lines and smiling at everyone, all the time careful of your salwar- now that you can call multitasking!

Our team treaded over hitherto unchartered territories garnering votes, whilst our rivals sat back cool and relaxed. We spent our money on petrol and food, braving the sun and heat while those lucky fellas stretched and relaxed in ac rooms. We worked for months and they worked just one day! That one day work was worth all the effort we put in. Those currency notes that they distributed will sneak back to the rightful owners aka the trade unionists, in this year’s Diwali bonus- lock, stock and barrel.

Therefore gentlemen and lovely ladies, lessons learnt during this break are-

1.    Even if you don’t blog for few months, you won’t die ;) In fact people can have a breather when you don’t share your post link in Facebook and ask them comment pleeeej :P

2.    You can sleep in peace rather than raking your brains thinking what to write next ;)

3.    You can snore at ten pm, gone are your nocturnal stints…

4.    All said and done, people just want biryani, quarter and a thousand rupee note. To hell with ideals and morals…

“MACHEEEE…ORU QUARTER SOLLEN….”

Autobiography of little things...

The dull roar of the air conditioners irritate me and the chill inside the office makes me feel numb. I sit atop  the marble counter top, flipping in the stale dirty air. Warily i view the surroundings. The counter clerk in Enquiry counter yells at the top of her voice to the old man across the counter. He peers at Madam through his scratched and foggy bi focals, trying to decipher her speech which i bet he could not hear. He appears to be  in his late seventies, all wrinkled and worn out. The Madam's tone has now almost reached supersonic decibels and i twitch my body hearing the ruckus she is making for just a few questions. All the poor old man wants is a senior citizen ticket in Pallavan Express to Chennai in S5 coach with boarding Srirangam, Window seat, facing the onward direction, opposite the sunlight, not near either the lavatories and seat among families. Why can't all trains have S5 coaches alone? Or will it not be better if there were no seats from 1 to 15 and 100 to 108? Phew! I myself am tired when Mr Old man leaves the Enquiry Counter to book a ticket in the Senior Citizen counter.      

                                                                                                           
Thank God, he is gone, i let out some air and wait patiently. The next one in queue is this gentleman who is restless. He moves his right hand to his mouth and ....oh no, not me and not again. He licks his tongue and reaches to lift one among us. My neighbor who was so far watching the drama silently is picked up by Mr Licker who spreads voluminous saliva and edges past the counter. I cross myself mentally, thanking God that i was not picked by Mr Licker. A beautiful teen in her jeans and worded tee stands next. I get the whiff of her mild perfume and inhale it happily. She starts her volley of questions to the clerk and i can see Mr Impatient standing next to her use the situation to his luck;) He snakes his hand from behind the unsuspecting teen and reaches for my next neighbor. Awwwwww...i send a silent Prayer above, Please God let him not lay his hands on me...dirty hands. He picks up my neighbor again and i am indeed relieved.

He stands near the counter and starts writing. His blue ink pen must have been a gift of his great grandfather from his great grandfather. It refuses to even scratch. He picks on the pen nib with his finger nails and tries writing. Again, no luck. Now Mr Impatient becomes clearly agitated, he flicks the pen and his right hand. Slop...the blue ink lands as an unceremonious patch on my unlucky neighbor in Mr Impatient's hands. I pity the poor fellow and await my turn. Now comes Mr Late who rushes with a gush of sweat and heat. He has probably missed his train and would want a cancellation, i think to myself. He picks up my neighbor in the front row and drains all his sweat on him. Poor neighbor...Dear God, let me not end up in the hands of Mr Sweaty and Wet- i think to myself. Who will be my Picker...i wait in silence.

This is the turn of Mr Earbud. He asks a few questions to the clerk, picks up a few of us and sits in the last chair. He must be very free, i muse to myself. Much to my chagrin, he starts to tear, roll and insert my neighbor in his left ear first. Mmmmmmmmm....i can see how glad he is, happily housekeeping his right and then left ear. Poor neighbor, she is discarded and the next neighbor is taken up for the ear- warming ceremony!

Mr Boozey arrives staggering. He is so drunk, he can't make out who is standing near him. I try to control my laughter, but sorry, Boozey doesn't help me. He picks me up and asks the clerk- " Zhoud i bill up a bom?" Poor lady, she can't stand the smell of Boozey, she covers her nostrils with her kerchief and says a meek yes sir. I sit silently watching what Boozey is going to do next. Apparently he is in no hurry, he is feeling jerky. I can see his eyes swim and before i could escape- Wham! Boozey does his job right. His timing and aim is perfect and i am done with. End of my life, AMEN. I am the most ill treated and damaged property in the Indian Railways. Yes, you guessed me right-