The Train to Mayiladuthurai
In Tamil,
“Mayil” = Peafowl (peacock or peahen),
“Mayil” = Peafowl (peacock or peahen),
“aadum”
= dancing,
“thurai”
= place
Mayiladuthurai gets its name from the Mayura or Mayil (peacock) form in which Goddess Parvathi
worshipped God Shiva at this place. While previously known by its Sanskrit
name Mayuram (and Mayavaram) meaning "peacock
town", the town has been recently de-Sanskritized to its Tamil translation
Mayiladuthurai as a result of a petition by the Mayuram municipality to the Government of Tamil Nadu in the wake of the Dravidian Movement. The Mayuranathaswami
Temple dedicated to Goddess Parvathi is one of the most
important Hindu temples in the town. There is a statue depicting Goddess
Parvathi in a peahen form
worshipping a linga, the symbol of God Shiva to
the west of the eastern wall of the temple.
(Source: Wikipedia)
As
the week dawned – (do weeks dawn?) – and I got my instructions to get ready for
a train journey, it dawned on me that I had no clue. I donned my thinking cap
and thought. Then “thunk!” It sank in. Another secret mission. They should make
a list of all missions beforehand and give it to chaps being sent on missions
so that chaps don’t get confused when they have to go on missions suddenly. Weak
yawn.
Gradually,
the details filtered in. I gathered them.
Anyway,
to come to the nub or the crux or the rem,
there I was, all details committed to memory and torn up, shredded, burnt and
flushed so no one will ever know. In secret service parlance it is referred to
as “no need to know”. What? Exactly. It will be tough to get anything out of me
now. How do you unflush, unburn, unshred or untear something?
I
got a pleasant surprise when I sat down and booked my train ticket online. As
soon as I entered my age in the space provided, there was a “sproing”, followed
by an “aila!” from the computer and then the price of the ticket got halved! Voila!
At
the appointed time on the appointed evening, I stood on Platform No. 2 of Bengaluru
Cantonment Railway Station, twiddling the shoulder straps of the haversack
hoisted behind my back, waiting for the Mysuru-Mailaduthurai Express (My-Mai Express) to arrive.
There
was something stabbing me in the back. I opened the haversack and peered in.
Ah! It was the steel spoon packed to help me shovel the curd rice in. I pushed
it into a corner away from my back and went back to waiting.
This
My-Mai Express used to be called Bangalore-Tiruchirapalli Express and ran from
Bangalore to Tiruchirapalli (and back, of course). Later, its run was extended
up to Thanjavur and it came to be called Bangalore-Thanjavur Express. Still
later, someone somewhere somehow decided that the train needs to run more up
and more down and stretched its route somewhat at both ends. The result is that
it now runs from Mysuru to Mayiladuthurai. And back. Bengaluru City, which
started off as the origin and destination station, got pushed down one third of
the way from the Mysuru end.
The
train arrived on time and I hopped in. Then hopped off. Wrong door. This one
said 1 TO 72. My berth was not near this door. I ran to the other door which
said 72 TO 1 and jumped in before anyone could say “Mayiladuthurai”. Moving
stealthily and quickly, I secured my berth No. 70 near the door by placing my
haversack on it. I was allotted the top berth. Top berths for top men. Hah!
The
cubicle was empty except for me and another gent. Probably another agent. He
didn’t speak much. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. This could be because he
was fast asleep. Smart thing to do when you have to get off at half three in
the morning.
I quickly
opened my dinner box, unpeeled the butter paper wrapped around the
butter-pepper sandwich and wolfed it down (wolfed down the sandwich, I mean, not
the butter paper), shovelled in the curd rice and vadumanga pickle with the
back-stabbing spoon and curled up in my bunker, er, berth. And didn’t sleep one
wink. I wanted to, but was afraid I might wake up in Mayiladuthurai.
But
I must have nodded off because I was woken up suddenly by some noise. The
well-oiled clock in my head read 01:03:27 hours (my head follows the 24-hour
system of telling time, starting from 00:00:00), we had reached some station, the train was motionless
and there was commotion outside. It seemed like hordes of people were trying to
get into our compartment. My sleep was eroded. I heard the word “erode” being
bandied about and, using my superior intelligence, was able to guess where we
were. Listening to the pandemonium outside, I prepared for the worst
eventuality but need not have worried because I was ensconced in my top berth
and no one attempted to snatch it away from me. It is rather difficult to
snatch top berths away, you see.
Ultimately,
a group of four persons, including a tiny kid of about three-and-a-half, barged
their way in and triumphantly took possession of the vacant berths below me.
Suddenly the compartment had become full and started to tilt ever so slightly towards
our end. I lay still and pretended to be sleeping by not opening my mouth. But
kept both my ears open. Just in case.
By
and by the train chugged off once again and picked up speed. The din died down
only slightly. Because the kid, who was secured to one of the middle berths by
a printed Erode bed-sheet and the arms of his mother, wanted to get off and run
around. He started demanding his rights vociferously but his amma was unmoved. The
person I assumed to be his father was hiding under another Erode sheet on the
top berth opposite mine. The kid started bawling loudly. I sobbed silently into
my pillow. Goodbye, sleep, thou art mist terribly. Pray, when will thou come to
mine eyes?
Ultimately
and to my great relief, the kid and the mummy appeared to reach some kind of
amicable settlement or understanding or truce; a couple of papers were signed
and exchanged between them, they shook hands solemnly and went into silent
mode. I tried sitting up to give thanks but there was no head room so I did it
supine.
The
next thing I remembered was that someone was shouting “Yendiru, adutthadu
Trichy (wake up, next is Trichy).” I clambered down, slipped on my slip-ons, hitched
my haversack and waited. The clock in my head said 03:29:38. Right on time, the
train as well as the clock. (I must remember to continue to oil my head regularly.)
Trichy
Fort! As I detrained and clambered up the steps of the over-bridge, I got a
glimpse of the Rockfort Temple, lit bright. I paused and shot off a quick
Namaskaram to my Supreme Commander.
The
autorickshaw men of Trichy Fort are a militant lot. I am told that, back in the
days of yore, they used to ferry warring soldiers from both camps up and down
the fort. They became known for naming the fare and not budging but getting
paid by the warring soldiers without demur. This automan wanted eighty rupees
to convey me to my lodge. I felt the fare was unreasonable and told him so. He
did not budge. I cleverly decided that, if he did not budge, I would, and got going by foot.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going and all that sort of thing. After
walking for about twenty rupees, I found another auto chap who quoted a more
reasonable fare of sixty rupees. I got in and we phut-phutted to the
seventy-year old hostelry which was to be my abode for the day.
The
watchman at the gate asked me my name. I told him. His eyes opened wide and he
opened the gate wide. I walked in, and presented myself at the empty reception.
Nothing happened for about a minute. Then a genial gent who turned out to be
the third generation owner suddenly materialised through the far wall and asked
me my name. I told him. He just nodded and pushed a register towards me and,
showing me a blank rectangle, told me to fill it, which I did, with a beautiful
three-dots-reducing-to-one “kolam” ( or rangoli, traditional design made by hand from coloured powder, on the ground in front of houses and a popular custom in South India). No, actually, I filled in my
name and address. I paid him a grand sum which shall remain confidential. He
then made a secret notation in the register and said “1-2-3”. I blinked. This
code was not given to me. Then he clarified, “that’s your room number” and I
relaxed. He advised me to “go and relax
for some time”. Summoning the watchman, he handed over a key to him. The
watchman politely relieved me of my haversack and waited.
It
was not yet four o’ clock and still pitch-dark outside. I held the watchman’s
hand and he led me to my room, my haversack in his other hand, I couldn’t see
if it was the left or the right hand because of the darkness. He opened the
door, switched on the tubelight and waited expectantly. I gave him ten rupees
and he parked my haversack on the side table. Fair exchange.
After
he left the room, I whooped and lay down for a spot of rest.
The
lodge has a quaint dining hall, large and pillared. It serves only “tiffin”, no
“saappaadu” or meals. There are small
individual tables with a stool in front of each. There is also a sign which
says “PLEASE PUT THE LEAF INTO THE BIN AFTER USE”.
They
make only so many idlis every morning,
a sort of a limited steamer service, and since half as many persons had already
eaten, two to a person, the idlis were sold out. I had to be content with poori-urulaikizhangu (poori-potato
sabji) and dosai-chutney-sambar.
I
polished off two poories while my dosai was being manufactured. When it
was delivered, I could only stare. It was a huge affair, about a yard in
diameter and could easily be unfurled into an umbrella - it was only missing a stick with a handle on one side and spokes on the other. The dosai was reverently
folded, re-folded and laid onto my leaf. Sambar
and chutney were poured on one side
while I tackled it from the opposite side, working my way inwards slowly but
surely, all the while careful to ensure that the chutney-sambar dam was not breached. By and
by, the leaf became clean. I rolled it up tightly, folded it in the middle and
dropped it into the bin dutifully. A
hearty breakfast was finished off in typical style with a tumbler of strong
filter kaapi, sakkarai kammi.
Having
fortified myself thus, I set off from Trichy Fort on my mission. Which I won’t
tell you about, it being a secret mission and all that sort of thing, you know.
Suffice it to say that I accomplished a fair degree of confusion. My only
regret was that I did not get to have panneer soda, the fizzy rosewater flavoured drink
which I’ve had only in Trichy.
The
return train journey to base was nothing much to write about, so I won’t write
about it. I arrived back in Namma Bengaluru at the crack of dawn and was
ferried home in an autorickshaw named “Om Madurai Veeran”.
© Shiva Kumar 2016
