Station Diary Part I
Today and tomorrow I will be sharing with my readers, the entries I had made in a notebook with a pen while waiting for morning to break after arriving at Kasaragod in the wee hours on 18.11.2009. A little more than 3000 words in about three hours.
2 A.M. 18-11-2009
I woke up even as the train slowed down at Mangalore junction. Having slept peacefully for quite sometime, I had to ensure that I had not crossed the alighting point. My watch showed the time as five to one. The sheduled arrival at the Mangalore junction was 12-25 A.M. I actually forgot that I had set my watch faster by 20 minutes. Little did I know when I got ready after the train resumed its journey that my hope of a late arrival had been crushed completely. The man on the opposite berth was having a 'sound' sleep and as if to compete with him, another person elsewhere in the coach had begun to imitate him. The unevenness of one's breath helped the other to catch up with him. I folded the bed linen provided to me and almost exhausted the remaining water down my throat. The coach attendant came, removed the curtains and announced to me that the train was approaching Kasaragod.
Before I had settled down to sleep, I had retrieved what I had earlier considered lost for ever. It is the pen with which I am now writing this note. I had let it fall in the morning in my frantic bid to get the money from my bag for paying the coffee vendor. It was somewhere beneath the berth, I knew. I tried once or twice with my hands to locate it. I sought the help of the co-traveller in the evening to locate it with the help of his mobile phone light. At last when it was sleeping time and only a few lights remained on in the coach, the truth revealed itself. Having almost given up my efforts, I did not think of it while I stretched myself on the berth.
The brain had started to switch off its various functions when suddenly it realised that there was a task left undone. These little things mean much to me. A comb which I have been assiduously retaining for the past 10 years even when my hair has all but been disappearing from my head is an example of my attachment to such insignificant things. I opened my eyes and again peered under the opposite berth. It was not there. I turned my neck and looked underneath my berth. Lo, what could not be seen in the day time made itself visible in the darkness of the night. The truth that was revealed to me was that sometimes what you cannot see in day time makes itself visible at night if only you have an eye to see it. My perseverance must have contributed a lot in the matter, now I believe, though I am not sure.
Well, it was a sort of making up for the faux pas committed by me at the start of the journey. I had to check my weight, of late there is a consensual opinion that I have been losing it rapidly. As I got on to the platform at Bhopal station, I saw a glittering sign- Know your weight, height and BMI and get your platform ticket, it read. There was a milling crowd at the railway station and I just walked past it on to the platform. I tried to walk up and down the platform to while away the time. But I could not get over the temptation. I again walked to the machine and after ensuring that I have a five-rupee coin, I got on to it. A platform ticket emerged from the slot and its contents were barely visible because of the faded print. I could just read my height recorded in it. It appeared to be 4 feet 10 inches. Immediately, I knew that it was not a correct measurement by the machine. I returned to the platform. As it had been drizzling, it was damp everywhere. Anyway, I spent one more rupee to get my weight on an ordinary weighing machine. I found it to be 67.5 kg. Thus it was that I set out of Bhopal on a bad note, of having done something indiscreet. By retrieving the pen, I had made amends, I believed.
As if by coincidence, a person who got into the cubicle at Madgaon happened to be a Kini like me. It happened like this. By his appearance, I was almost sure that he was a GSB like me. As he began to talk over his mobile phone, it was confirmed to me that my guess was correct. I saw the berth number on his ticket. It was the lower berth that was indicated. But somehow, he mistook it for upper berth and began to spread the bed linen on it. I was emboldened to point out to him that it is the lower berth that was allotted to him. One thing followed another and I asked him whether he is a Konkani. Yes, he said and asked, you? I too am a Konkani, from Kerala, I added. Without further introduction, he opened up. His foremost complaint was that we, the GSBs in Kerala do not cherish marrying our girls to GSBs in Goa. I pointed out to him that there were such differences between the two groups that such marriages would end in disaster. Then he said that GSBs in Kerala had assimilated the local culture to such an extent that they had little in common with their counterparts in the place of their origin. All along we had been talking in English and neither of us thought it necessary to converse in Konkani. That was enough explanation for the hesitation of the GSBs in Kerala to enter into marital relationships with their counterparts in Goa. If we cannot talk to each other in our mother tongues because of differences caused by regional influences, how can we lead a life together?
Anyway, I could elicit some useful information from my fellow passenger. There had been a Kini (Narayana Kini) in Goa. He had a palatial house at a certain place in Goa. He had constructed an inn/rest-house for travellers which even now remains, the man told me. Perhaps, Devaresa Kini (who was beheaded at the behest of Sakthan Thampuran, the rule of Cochin State) who is widely known to be my ancestor, belonged to that family. He then confided to me that I resembled his grand-father. Perhaps, we are distant cousins, I told him. He gave me his visiting card and that was the end of the matter. Apart from asking how young am I (I corrected him, you should have asked, how old) and my profession, he seemed little interested in his brethren in Kerala.
Well. In fact, a young man who had been an advocate when I was serving at Alappuzha and had appeared before me, had since then joined the judicial family. He was at Bhopal NJA when I had been there. It was on the last day I saw him and that too was on my initiative. He had failed to identify me although he knew my name and also that I was at Bhopal. Well, it is after a long time since we met and I have grown old, I told him. Oh no sir, he said, it is because you have a north-Indian look, he consoled me. Whether it is a statement of fact or just a hastily conjured up alibi, I do not know.
My helplessness as a judge is now in full show. I am sitting at the Kasaragod station, platform no.1 for the past one hour or so. It is pretty clear that I will have to spend two more hours here. There are only a few people around and I am saved the embarrassment of having to sit here waiting for the morning to break out to get out. A train is now fast fast approaching the station, probably a goods train. The green signal has been turned on. A child which was crying incessantly is now quiet. I now think of my predicament. I could have easily arranged a conveyance. In fact, I had an opportunity to do so when the auto driver who dropped me here on the 11th had been willing to arrange as he could not come. I had just shrugged away the offer, knowing well what would be in store for me when I reach here after completing my work at Bhopal.
There are three types of servants, Valmiki has quoted Hanuman as reflecting to himself. Servants who do just what they are told, servants who do no do even what they are told and servants who do something that will be good for the master along with what they have been told to do. I wished my peons and staff were of the third kind. Knowing well that I will be arriving at an odd hour, they could have arranged conveyance for me. They are not of that ilk and how can I blame them? And what is the point in accusing them for not being what I wanted them to be?
Yes, it is the most unsavoury part of my travel time that I am now spending on the platform no.1, Kasaragod Railway station. With no soul to help me, it is no wonder that I feel bad for myself. A judge is a nobody, the Director of the Academy had been repeating to us. There is nothing noble or special about judging. No special training is required for judging. All of us are judging in our daily life. Without judging, it is not possible to live a trouble free life. Yes, now I know that there is nothing special about being a judge.
Is it the whole truth? Was it not a decision I had taken, to forego the privileges attached to my office because of a deeply ingrained belief that a judge is a servant of the public, that he is not expected to rule over them and claim a special status. Judge nor, lest ye be judged. Yes, because I am judging, I am being judged. A just desert.
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