I was seven and he was a colorful hero to me. Sen was barely five-six, with graying temples and a slight slouch, but looked resplendent in his starched navy uniform and black-banded felt hat. He had a shy, boyish smile and a wonderful way of telling his stories, but what made him heroic in my eyes was his occupation.
A guard in the Indian railways, he checked passengers’ tickets, answered their questions, helped travelers with problems, told obstreperous children not to lean out of the windows, and finally retired to the tiny last compartment of the train, his little home away from home. I imagined him traveling to exotic places, meeting new and exciting people every day, savoring unusual food at remote rail stations, and living, in short, an odd, fast-changing life very different from the humdrum existence of people I knew.
A guard in the Indian railways, he checked passengers’ tickets, answered their questions, helped travelers with problems, told obstreperous children not to lean out of the windows, and finally retired to the tiny last compartment of the train, his little home away from home. I imagined him traveling to exotic places, meeting new and exciting people every day, savoring unusual food at remote rail stations, and living, in short, an odd, fast-changing life very different from the humdrum existence of people I knew.
Yet, there were glimpses of a discordant note. When he came to my aunt’s house alone, as he normally did, he was lively, garrulous, ready to talk and laugh. When he came with his wife, he seemed guarded, almost taciturn, reluctant to tell us any of his many stories. If we referred to stories he had earlier recounted, his wife seemed always to find some mistake or exaggeration in the story, even if it was trivial. Sometimes she even alluded to the pedestrian monotony of a railway job. She seemed angry that life had not dealt her a more favorable hand, in the form of a more affluent or well-placed husband.
However, everybody else seemed to enjoy Sen’s company and relish his endless stream of good-natured travel stories. It was easy to discount the possibility of a shadowy undercurrent in his life and stick to the image of a happy-go-lucky wanderer.
It came as a shock the day the city accountant, another regular at my aunt’s, somberly told us that the night before Sen had hung himself from the rafter in his outhouse. It was the sharpest tremor in my young life.
But it was three days later that I understood the full depth of his wife’s anger when she told us, “He thought he would punish me with his foolish act. But, live on I will. Happily!”
Young as I was, I doubted that last word.
However, everybody else seemed to enjoy Sen’s company and relish his endless stream of good-natured travel stories. It was easy to discount the possibility of a shadowy undercurrent in his life and stick to the image of a happy-go-lucky wanderer.
It came as a shock the day the city accountant, another regular at my aunt’s, somberly told us that the night before Sen had hung himself from the rafter in his outhouse. It was the sharpest tremor in my young life.
But it was three days later that I understood the full depth of his wife’s anger when she told us, “He thought he would punish me with his foolish act. But, live on I will. Happily!”
Young as I was, I doubted that last word.
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