It’s already 8.27 ante meridian.
Parking his scooter at the disheveled
parking-lot of Mambalam station, he was heedlessly rushing like his every usual
day, but without missing any of his automated routines. Probably a psychologist
would term them as OCDs (obsessive compulsive disorders), but he cared a hoot
of what others think of him, leave alone the psychologists. Skipping any of
those die-hard habits, he believed, would make his day miserable.
He shook the handle of his scooter twice to
ensure it was securely locked and fastened his helmet to the bracket; troubled
the handle once again before hurrying towards the station with his sling bag
clung to his shoulder. As he crossed the Ganesha temple, he got out of the
slip-on shoes, stood over them for a moment with his knees slightly bent
forward and knocked his head thrice with his knuckles muttering something like
a prayer; dropped a generous two rupee coin into the usual dented bowl of the
usual leper squatting in the usual place; customarily covered his nostrils as
he speeded through the urinal stink and increased his pace as he neared the
flight of stairs. The siren of the distant train comforted him that he was in
time.
Start of the day was not anything like this. At
630 in the morning, Parandaman was much more a relaxed person. He would squat
on the small thinnai of his house and spread The Hindu in
front and take the news and his filter coffee in alternate gulps. But it would
gradually gain momentum and when he came out of his bath reciting the slokas,
passed down through the generation, he would already be multi-tasking with
dressing up, stuffing his bag with his paraphernalia like paper, tiffin box etc
at the same time muttering his morning prayers. The sprint would peak at the
breakfast table and he’d gush in whatever was on the plate. ‘Why this
head-butchering urgency? Heaven is not going to fall, if you miss the 8.29’,
his wife’s admonition to slow him down would only irritate him, but he would
not retort. His irritation would show up when he kick-started his scooter which
frequently refused to button-start.
Two years back he used to be more stress-free.
He was not very fussy about taking this 8.29 local to Beach station where he
would switch another train to get to his office. Things changed, when a small
unassuming gadget appeared at his front office. This little inanimate creature
reminded him of the old Tamil maxim which roughly translates as ‘don’t
under-estimate the power of the murthy (idol) by its size’.
This biometric reader impartially and religiously recorded the time of entry
and exit of every employee. Initially he didn’t take it too seriously, but one
fine day, it started triggering innocuous mails of his entry and exit timings-
with cc to his boss. He could not ignore it anymore. Initially this had put
undue pressure on him and now has got used to that hurry as a way of life.
Climbing up a flight of forty steps made him
pant and he halted for a while after going up, as though looking out for the
‘Fast’ train, while trying to control his gasp. Then he alighted on platform no
1 jit (just in time) as the 8.29 arrived at the platform at 8.33.
The relief of having got into the train faded
away when he lost the lone vacant seat to a senior citizen who overtook him. He
occupied a corner comfortable enough to stand and hold his newspaper. He pulled
out the newspaper from his bag and folded it fourfold and started going on from
where he left. He used this also as a strategy to create an elbow room from the
co-commuters who would soon occupy every inch of the floor-space.
The conversation happening near him drew his
attention and he gave keener ear to it while he kept on the pretense of
reading.
‘I can’t believe it, I saw him in our coach two
days back’.
‘But who can predict this yaar? no one is born
with the expiry date. And such things do not come announcing; he was in a hurry
to his office. But he never knew that he was actually in a hurry to leave
forever.’
‘What actually happened?’
‘He was hit and thrown off by the 9.10 local as
he was crossing the track to take the Velachery train on the other platform.’
‘He was really a very nice guy’.
‘Poor fellow, he had such a caring wife. She
couldn’t control her grief. It seems she’d tell him almost every day not to be
in such a maddening hurry. Who knows? May be she had this premonition’.
Parandaman couldn’t hear any more. He was full
of emotions -all sympathy for his wife and himself too. He felt how badly he
had been treating his wife. It was after all, the care she had for him that she
showed as anger. How many days has he really cared to appreciate her for the
nice dishes she so-painstakingly prepares. He couldn’t think of a single day,
he even spoke to her some nice words. He felt cruel about himself. These
thoughts were churning in him even during the day and he decided to should
change himself - from Tomorrow.
The day had worn on and gave in to the next
day. Parandaman was back at the breakfast table. He looked at his watch. Oh,
no, it’s already time for the 8.29 local.
