Five Minutes Before Lonavla

A long time ago, in another life, when I was still studying in the boarding school in Bombay, I used to take the train on the last weekend every month, back to Pune, where my family was.

It was supposed to be a three-hour journey, but was almost always longer, as the train had a tendency of running late.

It’s funny how now, when I think about what I used to think about on the way back home, I can recall each thought exactly, but not its significance: I would remember the smell of the garden, or home-cooked halwa, and every once in a while, my old grandmother, who spent her whole day worrying about my father. I think, in fact, I am certain, I remembered all these things with fondness.

Yet, now, the only feeling I can still recall were the five minutes before Lonavla.

I had first discovered the thrills of standing outside the open door of a moving train in fourth grade, when I happened upon a man in deep thought, standing on the edge, looking down.

For a moment it occurred to me to pull him in; then, I joined him.

Up in the mountains, cuddled by clouds, we chugged along, slowly up the hill. Occasionally a light drizzle would fall on my face, forcing me to close my eyes. I cursed the rain for stealing my view, even for a second, but the rain was more stubborn than I was angry, and soon I learnt to tolerate it.

The rhythmic chug of the electric engine gently swayed us in our place, and I wished it would quieten down for a while, so I could hear what the mountains whispered.

You see, an electric engine fits in perfectly with the chatter of the traffic in Mumbai, or even in Pune. It is, in fact, a melodious sound, and as children in the boarding school, we rushed around in ecstasy, mimicking its call.

It was an ugly sound five minutes before Lonavla.

The train seemed to hear me at times, and would quieten down, and stop. For a few seconds, I would peer through the rain, and smile at the trees.

Gushing water and chirping crickets would reply.

Later in my academic life, I preferred listening to Pink Floyd’s Welcome To The Machine for those five minutes before Lonavla.

The trees crowded around, and stretched from my side of the mountains to the other. And streams appeared and disappeared in hundreds of small crooks in the mountain. I tried following them with my eyes once, but they made me dizzy, and I almost lost my footing on the train.

Right after crossing two small tunnels, the door opens up to a gorge. The train passes through a low-lying cloud, and mist clings to your face, if you are looking out. Then, the trees clear out, and you have to look down to find the bottom, for it is a steep gorge. Hundreds of hundreds of streams slither down the slope of a huge mountain, all in a hurry to meet the narrow river at the end. The mountain stays with you for a couple of minutes or so, running parallel with your train, then, bored, trails off into a different direction; but you stay your course, as your train rushes through another short tunnel. The smell of grass is overwhelmed by the stench of moist rock.

It was here that the most vivid memory of my five minutes rushes back to me.

You see, right after the third tunnel, everyone who would be gathered around, would leave, and I would be alone with my thoughts. It would be then that I would behold a rather queer sight. The only sign of human life in those five minutes before Lonavla.

On a small clearing, opposite the gorge, adjacent to the train tracks, would be one solitary hut. A man would be sitting on a charpoy, watching us pass by.

I rode the train for twelve years of my life, month after month. Each time, I would see the man, his hair a little greyer with every passing month, sitting around the hut, looking away from the gorge, at the passing train.

It was too fast, and too far away to ever see the look on his face, but I imagine it would be one of deep contentment.

Every month I passed him by, I waved to him. I do not remember how it started, but I do remember not looking to check whether he waved back or not the first few times. After a few months, it became almost a tradition to do so. One time while riding back, I forgot to wave, and I felt queasy the entire weekend.

Curiously enough, the man never waved back at me. He would merely look at me until I disappeared into another tunnel. I’ve spent the better part of two decades wondering why, but that is another one of the secrets lost to the hills.

He did wave once.

It was my last year in school, and I, lost in thoughts about homework and examinations, had absently looked through the gorge, until the sudden appearance of the tunnel knocked me back to this world. I wondered if I had missed the house, and waited for a few seconds for the answer.

I hadn’t.

There it was, as plain as ever. Just a small hut with a thatched roof, the most uninteresting thing in the canvas of bright green, mist, and water (which somehow made it, to me, the most interesting). I saw the man, now with a silver mane, sitting, I noticed, with his feet up, on the charpoy. His feet were covered by what I guessed was a woollen blanket, and I imagined his teeth chattered in the rain. Yet he stared on, refusing to move. Almost mechanically, I raised my hand to wave.

I would like to believe I saw, on his face, a glimmer of recognition. His mouth opened, but no teeth gaped at me. I hope his eyes sparkled, but the truth is, I do not know. All I know is that he waved back… and then, the moment was gone.

On the way back, and on subsequent train trips, I did not see the man again.

It seems to me that it always rained in Lonavla. Not once have I been on the train, and not gotten drenched in those five minutes. I suppose it wouldn’t be the same without the rain, though.

My father always said, to truly experience something, one needs to immerse all five senses in it. If not for the rain, I would only be investing only four of my senses in the ride five minutes before Lonavla.

Those were five minutes before Lonavla. Hundreds of five minutes.

Now, they are but a memory.