HTML [0] Design Genius [1] Punjab Mail [3.5] - PART II

Part II of this post explains its title. But before that, we must make time for a brief introduction, of this fine gentleman, Shashi. Now Shashi is no ordinary man, to the ignorant onlooker (the kind who didn’t get Mo-Dot), he handles the day-to-day life and the Human Resource Department at the organisation I am responsible for in Bihar, however, Shashi has not moved a single muscle in the last five years to ease the daily operations of that organization or added to the department he is responsible for.

Now, you might wonder why such a person continues to enjoy employment, well part of the answer requires deep understanding of the Hindu Caste System, the politics of both my organization and the cow-belt of India and why luck overtly favours some people over others. But the other part that can be explained in brief, here, and is within the scope of this blog is, well, Shashi is a wizard when it comes to hotel bookings, train tickets, banquet-hall reservations, and taking care of renegade employees.

He will get you the ticket for a train, first class with window seat, even if the engine, the roof and the luggage containers of the train are completely booked, he will get you inside a hotel room even if you call him in the middle of the night, the owners of the banquet halls in Patna behave as if they worked for Shashi and if an employee runs away with some money, Shashi will hunt him down and produce him within 24 hours and if the person escapes beyond Nepal, Shashi will produce, generally the hapless father and in special circumstances the entire family, of the employee. He is a real gem, this Shashi.

Anyway, I was to be in Calcutta this Friday for a friend’s wedding. So I walked into Shashi’s room on Thursday evening, only a few hours before the scheduled departure of my train and asked Shashi what he had brought for lunch. And then I ate half his food, finalised the salaries for the month and asked how his daughter was doing. Then casually I mentioned the ticket, to which he responded with a particularly wide yawn and then with considerable disdain he made a call that consisted of a string of whispers. Then he confirmed my ticket, at which point I tossed my laptop into my bag and headed home.

About thirty minutes before I had to leave, I got a call from the venerable Shashi. He seemed edgy and extremely embarrassed. And then, sounding like a proud Army General who had to sign a treaty accepting defeat in a major war, Shashi informed me that the ticket was not for 2392 UP Danapur-Howrah but for 3997 UP Punjab Mail. But it was confirmed, with window seat.

‘Sorry, Sir!’

‘It’s alright Shashi, Goodnight.’

At this point, the story can travel further only if we take some time out for another introduction. A preamble to a relationship; between my father and the Indian Railways. Now various people in my family have served at various levels in the Railways, from the DRM (Divisional Railway Manager), to the CCS (Chief Commercial Officer) to Station Masters. My father, as a result, has enjoyed special services in the Indian Railways. From berths that came chalked with his name in the 60s and 70s, to timely meals at regular intervals in the 80s to increasing the time Sharamjivi Express stopped at Kathgodam station. (That’s the train me and my dad took for eleven years, to get to school, we had to get off at Kathgodham, and the train would move on to Delhi. But it stopped there only for two minutes which were grossly insufficient to get off with one trunk, three bags and one hold-all.) Sharamjivi now halts there for 15 minutes; I of course no longer go to school. I am certain many a current passenger must question the judgement of the Indian Railways in awarding that deserted and dilapidated station such a lengthy stop.

So, my Dad is a collector of Railway time-tables, he is the only person who watches the Railway Budget with greater concentration than the General Budget, he is the only person that actually watches the Railway Budget, he actually celebrates the start of a new train, even if it begins and ends in Kerala or some other obscure corner of the world, in fact he is so passionate about the Railways that my name was almost decided to be Wheeler, and when my mother shot it down he had his eyes on Cookie. Thankfully by then I was more than six feet tall and could bully him back.

Anyway, I told Papa about Punjab Mail. Immediately he sprang into action. He called up almost every one at Patna Junction, introduced himself as the brother of CCS Howrah (cleverly hiding the fact that his brother retired in 1984), and demanded to know where Punjab Mail was. Then he calculated the distance, factored delays due to the winter fog and told me that the train was five hours late. Of course that’s exactly what the recorded message said too. But he likes to ascertain information.

By the way, my dad can calculate the speed of the train by looking at his watch and counting the Railway poles that go by, they are all separated by exactly 10 metres. When I was 12 years old this made me want to be like him, now of course I joke about it here.

So I fell asleep, knowing that it would be 3 AM before the train arrived. I didn’t even set an alarm because I knew my dad would be up all night. He called and tracked Punjab mail through Lucknow, Moradabad, Ara and so on, at one point I thought he was even yelling at the recorded message and after midnight he was introducing himself as the brother of the DRM of Eastern Railways. He retired in 1992.

So, I got up at 3 AM and dad and I left for the Patna Junction. The train was going to arrive in fifteen minutes. So my Dad and I took our weights (I need to cut down on the lamb curry) in those red grungy weighing machines that decorate railway platforms across the country, another father-son thing we did regularly over the eleven years that we took trains to my school. And then they announced that Punjab Mail was further delayed by half an hour. I asked my Dad to leave, mostly because I wanted to be left alone with my ipod.

I should have known; the name itself, Punjab Mail, was indication enough. I mean a train that would stick to its time table could not be called Punjab ‘Mail’. If it had been Punjab ‘Superfast’ or Punjab ‘Express’ or even Punjab ‘Deluxe’ one could conclude that the train was destined to a career characterized by punctuality. Punjab ‘Mail’!!!!

Anyway, the train went from being half an hour further delayed to one to three to five hours further delayed. All this while I cursed Shashi; and myself for not booking a flight or asking my dad to wait longer. I was introduced to the night life of Patna Junction, drunk kids, drunk beggars, drunk people in general, chai-wallahs, newspaper kids selling news from three days ago and so on. How come there is only as much news every day to fill a news paper? (Courtesy: Jerry Seinfeld)

So, I stood out like a sore thumb for four hours before being rescued. It was cold, and my ipod lost charge almost immediately, and there wasn’t even the occasional hot woman like at the Delhi/Mumbai airport, and all this for a friend’s wedding, I don’t think I’d put in as much effort for my own wedding, and if I did I am sure I'd be married twice by now!!! No?! Wait a minute... Eventually I didn’t even go to Calcutta, and spent the weekend at home.

So that's that...