We were a motley crowd of young bank officers. Our names reflected the heterogeneity: Mehta, Talwalkar, Hussein, Ponappa, Dasgupta, Thomas, Khosla… We were all at the Old Delhi railway station, to catch a night train to Jammu, from where we were to fly to Srinagar to attend a meeting there.
It was around 8 p.m., and as there was still some time left, most of us had got down from the train and were on the platform, engaged in idle chatter. I was on Cloud 9, having just returned from a two-week vacation at home, where I had got engaged to the most wonderful girl in the world!
Somewhat absent-mindedly, I found myself wandering away from the others. Still in a reverie, I kept walking, till I reached the end of the platform. I then turned around, and to my consternation, realised that my train was no longer where it had stood! Instead, all I could see were its rapidly receding red taillights. Aghast, I sprinted madly after the train, rudely shoving aside several startled bystanders.
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The chase was futile. I soon gave up, but had a sudden brainwave. Vaulting adroitly over the picket fence leading to the adjoining taxi-stand, I jumped into the nearest cab and instructed the driver to take me to Sabzi Mandi station, where I knew the train would stop briefly. As traffic was light, we got there pretty soon. Desperately praying that the train would be late, I charged into the station, only to be confronted once again with the same old receding tail-lights!
Crestfallen, I slunk out of the station and took another cab to the Inter-State Bus Terminal (ISBT) at Kashmere Gate. There was no bus to Jammu immediately, but there was one to Chandigarh within ten minutes. I was about to board this bus, when a short, stocky Sikh wearing a white safari-suit stopped me and offered me a ride in his Chevrolet Impala. He would, he said, get me to Chandigarh much before the bus. Moreover, as the car was air-conditioned, I would be much more comfortable and he would only charge the bus fare.
Lured by these multiple inducements, I accepted his offer with alacrity. There were three others in the car and soon we were on our way, speeding along Sher Shah Suri’s historic Grand Trunk Road, past Sonepat, Panipat and Karnal.
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It was then that another brainwave struck me. I realised that we were travelling parallel to the route my train would have taken. Would it be possible, I wondered, if the car could actually catch up with the train somewhere along the way?
I mentioned this to Balbir Singh, the driver. There was a glint of excitement in his eyes as the portly Sikh checked his watch and assured me he would get me to Ambala before the train got there. With demoniac zeal he stepped on the gas, and soon we were zooming along at what appeared to be supersonic speeds.
Meanwhile, Balbir regaled us with his life story. He was a raconteur par excellence and enthralled us with his earthy, rustic wit. He hailed from a small village called Fatehgarh Churiyan near Amritsar. His father was a farmer, and Balbir had a wife and a young daughter called Jasminder Kaur, who he hoped would one day become a doctor. He had gone to Palam airport to drop his boss, a Chandigarh businessman, who was travelling to Germany. As Balbir was returning alone, he thought of making a quick buck by taking in some passengers.
Balbir kept his word. Around midnight, we drove into the Ambala Cantonment station, just as the train was pulling in. Elated, I tipped Balbir handsomely, and after an ursine hug, he disappeared into the night, while I ran on to the platform and banged vigorously on the doors of our coach. An astonished Talwalkar let me in while I narrated my little adventure and how I reached Ambala in an Impala!
All this happened many years ago, but even now, I often think of the cocky, sturdy Balbir Singh with affection. Where is he now? And did Jasminder Kaur become a doctor? I wonder…
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