Family and Indian Women.

Have you ever noticed some families that always carry their home wherever they seem to travel. In buses, trains and stations you can see them occupy spaces with complete familiarity and comfort. It seems like they own them and you feel like you are intruding in their private space.

This is an incident of one such family. It was thankfully not a very large family, actually it was the epitome of a nuclear family, make that a Hydrogen Molecule family, what with just two members, but am rambling now.

I was traveling on the Matsyagandha Express from LTT (Kurla Terminus for the uninitiated and the initiated too!) to my native place in southern Karnataka, Udupi. This train runs along one of the most scenic rail routes in India, the Konkan coast. It leaves Mumbai and then heads towards Goa, finally crossing Karnataka to enter Kerala. I am not rambling now, this has a purpose.

It was a 3AC coach, but, the train was only marginally full. We had the coupe to ourselves. By we, I mean, I and the H2 molecule family. It was an old couple. Just past their middle age and already they seemed to have celebrated their marriages' golden jubilee celebration. They were going back to their house in Kerala after visiting their children in Mumbai.

The journey went on, with small talk between me and the old guy. As with all train chats, it died out when I got out my book and pretended to read. They did not talk much amongst each other. The old guy started leafing through a mag and the lady looking out of the window and 'tsk'ing at pretty young things going to Goa, in pretty small dresses.

Evening wore on. I was just lounging about trying to get the PYT's to talk to me while suddenly I hear a great snap and feel a bustle in my coupe. I turn around to see what can only be called a symphony in motion. Zen like in its understanding of minds.

The side table was up and about. The lady then very silently reached in to her bag and got a bottle filled with amber liquid. Then she takes out a steel tumbler, exactly like the one in which my Granny feeds me (tries to, at least) milk. Then very expertly she draws a measure from the bottle. One can actually feel the great vernier caliper in her brain sliding the rule to the millimeter. With fluidity of motion, that could be envied by any barkeep in our great country she stopped pouring, without spilling a single drop, re-capped the bottle and whisked it in to her bag again. This must have taken about 30 seconds and no words.

The old guy looks at her,the glass and then takes it. Makes a face at it and puts it to his lips and gulps it down neat. Then he starts shaking his head violently from left to right all the while "blrring" with his tongue. By now, I was frankly staring. " Brandy" He said to me. "For my digestion." While the old lady was already making other arrangements.

A different bag this time. One with gleaming steel containers. One opens to reveal a whole fish, fried Kerala style, another opens to fish pieces in curry again kerala style, while the third has mounds of plain, steamed rice. With dexterity of long practice, she lays the paper plates out and they guy starts eating with gusto. She looks on to see if he needs anything.

After about a couple of mouthfuls, he looks up and there is a glass of water waiting for him in her hand. He takes a sip and hands it back. In all this while, the lady does not seem to take a single bite. Fish and rice demolished. The guy raises his hands for the plates to be picked up and a dollop of soap to be dropped in his palm. Off he goes to wash his hands.

In his absence, the lady has cleared the table. Pulled the bunks (with my gallant help, if I may add) and laid the bedclothes on them. The old guy comes back and then he sits on my bunk. The lady then hands him his medicines and another glass of water. He makes a face and shoves these down his throat.

I am waiting for the lady to have dinner, so I asked her, aren't you having anything? The old guy says, " She is a vegetarian, can't stand fish. As I can only eat fish on train journeys, she will probably eat when she gets home."

By this time they were looking very pointedly at my unmade bunk and the bed clothes that were lying untouched at the bottom. Took the hint and made my bunk. Before I had laid out my pillow and removed my shoes, the lights were off. I laid myself out in the dark, thinking, must be only in India.

My ode goes to all the ladies who can make their husband's drink, dinner, medication and bed all in the moving trains that seem to carry so many of us from one home to another. Never had I ever imagined that the journey itself could be like one long passageway that connects one wing to the other.