Lost & found in luck: A local story
Just as this year hastened itself to an end, I decided it’s time to make another visit to a place I’ve fallen out of love with. OK. Basically visiting my parents in Dronagiri (don’t ask me where it is; I am yet to understand how we ended up here but for your reference, it’s near Uran in Raigad district). My dad is close to 80 and my mother is inching closer to bitter senility. They practically live with two cats and 25 plants; their elder son visits once in 2-3 months whereas their younger son visits every weekend. On surface, they are retired but they are miles away from contentment sans grandchildren.
Anyway, I boarded the usual afternoon train from Mangalore and reached Panvel at 5.45 am, exactly an hour delayed. Before pandemic, I don’t remember seeing passengers without reservations boarding reserved compartments. That’s not the case today. Anyone and everyone gets into sleeper bogies and even the ticket checkers don’t bother to reprimand them. I am sharing these details to punch in the fact that I couldn’t catch a lot of winks at night due to commotion caused.
So, yes, I got down at Panvel and caught a Thane-bound local train at 6.13 am. I had a brown backpack containing my work laptop, a couple of t-shirts/shorts, the basics required for a 2-week stay. I also carried a white plastic-y bag containing 10 coconuts that I had picked up from our village during my last visit to Manipal. They come from the same tree that my mother planted back in the early 2000s.
Well, I hopped onto the local; it was sparsely populated and I easily found a window seat. Relieved my shoulders of the heavy backpack and placed it up onto the shelf while lowering the coconut bag onto the floor. Eyes were burning already and lower back was pretty gone thanks to the stiff railway bed. Leaned back fully and inhaled deeply.
That’s all I remember.
Don’t know what happened next but I completely passed out, only to wake up frantically at Belapur station, where I originally intended to alight to catch the connecting local train to Dronagiri. I am yet to understand how our mind functions in such tight corners where it ensures you wake up exactly at the right station or at the right moment just a minute before your alarm goes off. Amazing, amazing brain.
I frantically got up and quickly got down from the train in the perfect Mumbaikar style with one leg extended out like a heron from Miyazaki movies. Was mighty relieved because I am the same guy who, during his first job days, once slept through the whole trip from Belapur to CST and back to GTB Nagar. Reminiscing about those days, ironically at the very station where it all began, I started walking towards platform 4 where Uran-bound 6.45 am train was ready. I had 15 minutes to spare, so no rush.
Out of the blue, I was feeling light. You know how it feels like when your work is done for the day and you experience a strange but refreshing lightness that you are familiar with but are scared of because it generally entails a shitload of heaviness that you aren’t prepared for? That.
Turns out what I was feeling had nothing to do with mental relief. It was plain physical. My shoulders were feeling light because I wasn’t wearing my backpack.
Yes, my brown backpack!
Oh, fuck!
Two words escaped my mouth as my whole body felt what my head generally feels during bouts of dizziness. Couldn’t fully comprehend what just happened: I forgot my backpack in the local train.
Looked at the time and it was 6.33 am.
Whenever something horrible happens to you, your eyes shows it. There is no way your eyes can hide the storm within you. Your face can pretend but your eyes simply can’t.
In my frantic state of disbelief-turning-into-acceptance, I asked a fellow passenger on the platform—there were barely 10 people on the platform—whether he knew the railway helpline number. He said no. I could have simply googled but I didn’t even take out my phone. I just wanted to talk to a fellow human, I guess. Asked another passenger and he said 139, so I quickly dialed the number and waited for someone to respond.
No response. Only RFV that went on for at least a minute or so. Utter waste of precious time.
All of a sudden, a young tall man showed up next to me. Maybe he understood my panicked body language and enquired what happened. He suggested I dial 1512.
A railway helpline fellow promptly said hello. He asked several questions related to the exact time of Panvel local, which compartment I was on, where I sat, etc. and I answered everything calmly. The time was exactly 6.45 am and I noticed the Uran train leaving on dot. I was supposed to be on that almost empty local.
The helpline fellow said he will check and let me know. The way he said it, it felt like he was praying for me to keep my hopes low. Perhaps somebody has stolen the backpack. Perhaps someone threw it out thinking it has bomb. Perhaps it’s on its way to Thane. So many possibilities. Who knows? However, he asked me to wait at Belapur station. So, I stayed put.
24 minutes passed by and my phone finally rang. I didn’t even pick up pappa’s call to ensure that my line remains clear.
The time was 7.14 am.
It was a railway cop. Turns out he had found my backpack at Ghansoli railway station, and asked me to reach immediately.
Oh, fuck!
Couldn’t believe my ears. They actually found my backpack!
Just half an hour ago, I was wondering, “I must be a horrible person who must have done horrible things because such a horrible thing has happened to me!”
30 minutes later, I was reassuring myself, “I must be a fantastic person because who gets lucky like this nowadays!”
More importantly, I haven’t traveled ticketless since my journalism days at Mid-day. The streak ended that morning as I took the next available Thane-bound train to reach Ghansoli. Funny how I was bothered by unreserved passengers the previous night and here I was traveling without ticket. They at least had tickets, unreserved nonetheless.
As soon as I reached Ghansoli, I paced down the underpass to get to the RPF office on the other side. Coincidentally, I found two cops walking ahead of me. I mildly screamed, “Sirjee!”
Turns out that the senior among them was the one who had called me on phone.
He asked me if I’ve had my morning tea. I told him no. He said, “Chalte hai fir.” (Let’s go then!)
I barely said anything and started walking along with them. They were heading out of the station building towards the road. On our way, he asked questions related to the backpack to doubly confirm its ownership. I answered everything.
“What is in the backpack?”
“How did you manage to leave it behind?”
“Where do you work?”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Where were you going?”
“How much does the laptop cost?”
“Have you lost anything on a local train before?”
Etc.
Etc.
More etc.
So, we had cutting chai at the nearby tapri. All three of us. I quickly downed my chai to avoid any further wastage of time. The senior cop paid. Having grown up hearing the phrase chai-paani in Bombay, I should have offered to pay. But my amazing, amazing brain was too tied up to act nimble or cool.
On our way back into the station building, he kept talking, informing me how he intercepted the train and ran to the first compartment to retrieve my property. He was also asking questions out of curiosity, not related to the backpack but to me. Either to judge my character or to ascertain the amount of bribe he could snatch out of me.
Finally we reached the RPF office. It was a tiny room with one sarkari table and three chairs, placed below a fan and and a tubelight already running. There was a religious frame on the wall and a national flag alongside. There was a Marathi abhang (devotional poem) dedicated to Lord Vithala drawn, too. Of course, my attention was fixed on my brown backpack sitting upright like a toddler on the table.
The senior cop directed me to the middle chair and then repeated some of the questions that he had already asked me earlier. He started feeding my answers into his phone as if he was filling an application form.
The whole process took another 10 minutes.
“Ho gaya!” (It’s done.)
Just two words by him indicating that the formality is complete. I thought he will ask me, directly or indirectly, to hand him some money for fetching my laptop safely back to me. But, no, he had different plans.
He got up and handed his phone to the junior cop and asked me to take out my laptop. As I held it at one end, he created an amusing pose for the picture his subordinate was about to click. It reminded me of the prize distribution day from my childhood where the principal used to hand certificates and gifts to winning students. Three photographs were clicked. In each one of these pics, I smiled wider than the mustachioed senior cop.
I was a bit ashamed of myself for thinking low of them. Being used to the corrupt system in place, I naturally assumed that they might be expecting some kickback from me. But, no. They were just happy to have helped a fellow citizen and were documenting the same for future appraisal. Part and parcel of their job.
As a token of gratitude, I placed my bag of coconuts on the table and thanked him profusely. He hesitated at first but accepted them while the junior cop smiled wider than me.