‘You know, we don’t buy such expensive things often. We save for years to be able to – and only if no unexpected expenses come up in between. But incidents like this set you back by almost two months.’
The listener remained silent. He was still searching for the right words. At that moment, someone from the crowd, someone eavesdropping on the conversation like me, said,
‘You are really lucky.’
It wasn’t just the people listening in who were taken by surprise at the comment. The two men looked askance at the stranger who had butted into their conversation. He continued,
‘I beg your pardon. We don’t know each other. But I couldn’t help interrupting. Not that I could help overhearing either. But let me reiterate – you are really lucky. You only have to spend thirty-five rupees more. My camera got spoiled beyond repair.’
On hearing this, the man with the broken camera relaxed a little. He’d got visibly irritated when the stranger had called him really lucky. Intrigued, he asked,
‘Why, what happened?’
‘It was a situation similar to the one in your house this morning.’
‘What make was your camera?’
‘A Rolleiflex.’
Listening to the stranger, I was convinced that he was bluffing. He didn’t look like a person who could afford an expensive Rolleiflex.
‘What happened to it?’
‘The lens got shattered when the camera fell down. Totally destroyed, you know. Beyond repair.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I now have to import the lens. I’m told it will cost at least two or three hundred rupees. I can’t afford to pay that kind of money. At least you’ll get your camera back once you save for a few months, but I will have to save for another year before I can get my camera back in working condition.’
The man with the broken camera seemed convinced by the logic and, looking at his friend, said,
‘Yes, it seems I am really lucky!’
We had reached Churchgate station by then. Time had flown listening to this interesting exchange.
It’s always a Herculean task to board the train during peak hours – and god forbid if the train is late by a few minutes. Then the task is almost impossible. It was on one such evening, having barely managed to push myself into the compartment, that I heard,
‘Oh god! Someone’s picked my pocket.’
The victim displayed his trouser pocket, which had been neatly slit open by the expert pickpocket. He listed his losses – his train pass, three five-rupee notes, a few coins and the wallet itself.
‘I’d bought a three-month pass before the fares were hiked,’ he was telling the people around him. The he proceeded to curse, in order, the person who had picked his pocket, the crowd, the delay, the trains that always ran late and, finally, the government.
He had barely managed to calm down when I heard the words,
‘You are really lucky.’
I turned to look in the direction of the voice.
It was the same man. The one who had told the story of his damaged Rolleiflex. I recognized him even though I was seeing him after many days.
‘What’s so lucky about losing one’s wallet? You’d know the pain if you lost yours.’
‘I’m telling you, I have suffered the pain. You were lucky to get away with very little damage. When I lost my wallet, it had five tickets for Nagpur and three hundred and fifty rupees in cash. I had borrowed the money from a friend that very day. Now, what do you have to say?’
‘I may be luckier than you, but today these fifteen rupees are equal to a hundred and fifty for me.’
‘That’s always the case. The three hundred and fifty were equal to three-and-a-half thousand for me. And I had to spend extra to buy five more tickets to Nagpur.’
‘Did you put in a formal complaint with the railways?’
‘You must be joking. The railways are not for us. We are for them. We have to travel like this without complaining.’
‘The last journey,’ someone quipped.
Everyone laughed, and soon it was time to disembark at Churchgate.
Many days passed. There were many conversations to overhear while commuting, many comments to listen to.
Two men were speaking. One said,
‘Many have died for want of timely medical treatment, many more than have survived!’
As usual, the people around them laughed. But the other person replied in all seriousness,
‘You’re absolutely right. Our Sandeep suffered so much, thanks to the incompetence of the doctors.’
‘Really? What happened?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘How would I? We’re meeting after nearly a year.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’
‘So, what happened to Sandeep?’
‘Don’t get me started! It began as a simple fever. The doctor gave him a penicillin shot but it didn’t suit him and he went into shock. He was unconscious for four days and when he recovered he was unable to speak properly.’
‘My god!’
‘I feared the worst. I was worried he would lose his speech. But he recovered gradually and now, except for a few words, he speaks quite clearly. We suffered for a whole year, me and my wife.’
It was at that moment I heard the words from somewhere in the crowd,
‘You are really lucky.’
The voice was unmistakable. The words, the delivery … It had to be the same man. I turned and my suspicion was confirmed. He introduced himself, as expected, in the same manner.
‘Please excuse me. We don’t know each other. But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. And let me tell you why I believe you are really lucky. My son had the same problem. He too was given a penicillin shot. But he is still bedridden. It has been three years now. He is paralysed. We have tried all possible cures. All my wife and I do is attend to him day and night. You, I feel, are really lucky.’
I caught the liar as soon as we disembarked at Churchgate. ‘Wait, I want to talk to you,’ I said.
He stopped.
‘Why do you lie to people in the train?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, unperturbed.
‘I heard you talk of your Rolleiflex camera, and then about the way you lost a
