The journey to Kabul began with shared kebabs on a train

I BOUGHT A pair of shorts from Chandni market for nine sikka before I boarded the train. In those days smart Bengalis travelling by train often made full use of a facility called the ‘European Third’.

I was boarding that ‘Third’ when an Anglo-Indian shouted, ‘This is only for Europeans.’ I barked back, ‘Can’t see any European here. So let’s relax and spread our legs in this empty carriage.’

Comparative linguists say that if you add ‘ng’ at the end of a Bengali word, it would sound like Sanskrit; similarly, if you put emphasis on the first syllable of a word, that will make it sound like the Queen’s English. Meaning, accentuating on the first syllable is like putting too much chilli powder in Indian food to hide all evidence of bad cooking. Simply put, this was barking English. The Anglo-Indian was a native of Taltola, a cosmopolitan neighbourhood in central Calcutta. He was so impressed by my English that he instantly started helping me with my luggage. I left the job of bargaining with the porter to him. His entire family had worked for the Indian railways for generations, they knew how to deal with station porters.

Meanwhile, my enthusiasm for the journey was fast fading. I had been so busy arranging my passport, buying clothes and packing that I did not have the time to think about anything else. A most cowardly thought crept into my mind soon after the train left—I was alone.

The Anglo-Indian was a good man. Guessing that I was feeling low he asked, ‘Why do you look so depressed? Going far?’

I realised that he knew the rules of etiquette. He did not ask, ‘Where are you going?’ I had learned most of my lessons in etiquette from a padre. He had taught me that it was proper to ask, ‘Going far?’, as you could say yes or no—or anything you liked, if you wanted to respond. ‘Where are you going’ was like facing interrogation by Elysium Rowe—you had to give an answer; there was no escape, and that would be rude.

I started chatting to him, which proved to be quite fruitful. Soon after it was dark, he opened a huge basket and joked that his fianceé had cooked enough food to feed a whole army. I said hesitantly that I too had some food but it was native fare and may be too hot for him. After some debate, it was decided that there would be brotherly division and we would eat à la carte.

My eyeballs froze in their sockets as he started to lay out his food. The same seekh kebab, the same Dhaka paratha, murgh musallam, meat-with-potato. I had brought the same from Zakaria Street. My menu matched his exactly—no shami kebab instead of seekh, no meat-with-cabbage in place of meat-with-potato. I said, ‘Brother, I have no fianceé and I bought all of it from a hotel in Zakaria Street.’

It tasted the same too. The Anglo-Indian kept looking out of the window pensively while eating. I vaguely remembered a chubby Anglo-Indian woman coming into the hotel when I was buying my food and ordering everything that was available. I thought of asking him to give a description of his fianceé, but chose not to. It would do no good; besides he was drinking some smelly coloured liquid from a bottle. He was Anglo-Indian after all; who could guarantee that his mood would not change.

It got darker. I did not eat much as I was not hungry. I was not sleepy either. It was a moonlit night. Through the window I could clearly see that the land we were passing through was not Bengal, there were no betel-nut trees or villages lush with mango and jackfruit orchards, only a few houses scattered here and there. There was no pond. People were lifting water from high-walled wells. The wet-smell from the earth of Bengal had evaporated and sand and dust from the scorched earth was whirling around carried by a sudden gust of wind slapping you on the face. What would this land look like in daylight if this were its face in this semi-darkness? Was this western India? The fertile-green-India? No it was not. When Bankim mentioned the voices of thirty koti people in fertile-green-India, he meant Bengal. It would be a joke to say that the west was fertile and green. Suddenly I saw Haren Ghosh from our neighbourhood standing by me. What? Yes! It was our Haren all right! How come? And he was singing, ‘Thirty koti, thirty koti, koti koti—’

No, it was the ticket checker—come to check tickets. He was not singing ‘Koti, koti’; he was shouting ‘ticket, ticket’.

It might have been a carriage for Europeans but it was third class after all. How could he show his authority if he did not wake us up in the middle of the night to check tickets? I promptly woke up. The composition of the carriage had changed. The ‘European compartment’ was looking quite desi—suitcases, trunks and beddings were scattered around. I did not know when the Anglo-Indian had got off the train. He had left behind the basket of food for me with a note on top, ‘Good luck for the long journey.’

He might have been an Anglo-Indian, but he was after all from Calcutta—a native of Taltola. I was a regular visitor to the Iranian restaurants there; I had introduced my Hindu friends to Muslim cuisine in that neighbourhood; watched swimming at the lake in the square; clapped and cheered when a fight broke out between a white soldier and an Anglo-Indian over a dame.

A philosopher friend from Taltola had once said that man became excessively sentimental—maudlin—if he was injected with emetine. In that state he would sob, covering his face with the pillow, if even the cat next door died. Being injected with emetine and going abroad were the same. But we should not go further. There will be ample opportunities to touch on this subject later.

I could not remember when dawn broke. The summer month of June in western India did not make any overtures. By seven the sun had entered the cars and indicated what the day would be like. I had heard that the maestros in the western region did not like to sing in slow tempo, they liked to reach the climax quickly. That evening I realised that only the early morning sun in the region was andante and the rest of the day was allegro.

The train was like the maestro. Running fast in an attempt to beat the drummer so that he could rest. The sun was running equally fast. We poor passengers were caught in the middle of this race, with brief pauses at stations. But I could clearly see that the sun was looking at the train from the corner of his eyes, standing outside the shade of the platform, like the drummer who rolled his sticks and got ready in between two songs.

When I ate, when I slept, which stations passed, who got off, who did not—I could not keep track of anything. The heat was so intoxicating; otherwise why would I write a poem?

A burnt field lay before me. As far as the eyes go to rest
On the horizon—burnt, angry yearnings. Heart at unrest
Everywhere on the earth. Only her angry, her fiery eyes
Raining at cruel speed. All of creation groaning in a rise
In forests, mountains and roads. Yamuna’s dry chest
From one bank to the other—like some mother’s breast
Sucked dry by some ogre. A dirge rises in all consuming grief
The world over. I surmise: there is no hope, none to relieve
This desert with life, give it the sweet sap of a green shroud.
A demon’s wrath has sapped the strength of the water-cloud,
Drained the King of Gods of his wine. Earth’s breast ploughed
Dry of all green by a weary, disconsolate spectre-wombed cow.

What a poem! Drier than the dry lands of the west. The poem was not published before Gurudev passed away. Guru’s curse is the ultimate curse!

Excerpts taken from In a land far from home - A Bengali in Afghanistan by Syed Mujtaba Ali, translated by Nazes Afroz with permission from Speaking Tiger