ABSTRACT
At the little country station I walked into the one and only office to book my camp luggage. The Assistant Station Master, in charge during the day, sat there holding his head with both hands and seemed unable to take in what I said.“Are you ill ?” I asked.“Oh, Madam, if I could cut my throat it would be better! The pain, the pain!” He produced the ticket.“Can you not take sick leave ?”“ If you asked for a year they would not give it.” I supposed that requests take time to go through. Or was this hardheartedness the result of sick leave being asked too often in out of the way places ?The demand for a bicycle ticket seemed to drive him frantic.“Ayyo> ayyo/” 1 he wailed, searching for the book. When he had found it his voice grew more hollow and sepulchral.“Oh, Madam, I have not even washed my face. . . . Name, please ? . . . No, I have not washed. I hoped that would keep the pain away. . . . T o Makaji? . . . When I have the pain I am not a man-ayyo-ayyo!” I felt he was coming to pieces before my eyes.“Have you been to the dispensary?”“Yes, he painted something on, but that is only good for people who eat tamarinds, not for me. I ought to sleep till sunrise, ayyo! but the mail comes past at five. The water in this place does not suit me; I have no friends here or any relations to look after me. I had to send my wife to her home for her confinement, my difficulties are too great.”The crowd at the window was growing clamorous. “ Ticket, Sarr, ticket!”1 A l a s ! or oh d ear! I
Distractedly he punched some. “Give me the right money,” he moaned.“We did! It is only four and a half annas to Dodduru.”He banged it down in despair and grasped his head. “Not right, not right,” he groaned. A whistle sounded in the distance. The porter rushed in. “Bell, Sir?”“Tell someone to take the bicycle.” He turned pleadingly to me.“ I will see to it myself,” I promised, and marched out in distress, reflecting on the isolation of the lives of station officials in country places. Also on the beguiling-if naive-way many Indians have of willingly telling you about themselves. Would an English ticket clerk . . .? But the need of bundling the plentiful luggage, tent things and all, into the train interrupted further moralizings.The little son of the Station Master was dancing about on the platform ; at various times of passing by we had made friends. He hung in at my window: “A book? Have you got a book for me this time? I can read well now! “When are you coming again? Please bring me a doll next time you come. My mother says will you come and see her?”“All right, I will try, next time.” If the men suffer from isolation how much more their women? I glanced at the little red-tiled house behind the station, officials’ quarters-what lives did its inmates lead ? The men have their work, the distraction of trains and the whole railway business (and they know how to make it interesting, too! Many are the tales one hears of the private toll exacted before goods are sent on; my own messengers with my camp goods have not always been exempt). But the women? No goings-on in bazar to watch from the doorstep, no temples near to visit, no neighbours of their caste with whom to have a chat ; medical aid far in time of sickness, and the education of sons a problem. Railway communications are an untold boon to India; but I spared a thought of
sympathy for those who have to endure some hardship to make them possible.
