Did I feel reformed? I can’t say. But, as I watched those heavy, black gates dizzyingly sweeping to a close, one thing was certain – I never wanted to see them again. That day, with the last rays of the sun, a period of my life ended that I wished never to relive or recall again.

            The railway station was teeming with people, fortunately for me. After all, where could a person hope to attract least attention if not in a crowd? Nonetheless, there must have been something very singular about my appearance, for I noticed that even in the midst of their busy operations, they managed to throw a furtive glance or two my way – a distinction awarded to no other person.

            There were still two hours before the train was due. I sat in a sort of numbed stupor, watching the endless lines of people moving in both directions. How busy the world seemed! Everybody had something to do, or something to think about – everybody but me.

            At length, I saw the train come slithering along the track, puffing out smoke that clouded the moonlight. It seemed as if an age had passed. Perhaps three years of perpetual monotony had confused my sense of time.

            The doors opened and people poured out from every compartment, like termites out of holes in infested wood. I felt about for my ticket and made for the door, moving aside for anyone who seemed to be in a particular hurry; I had no wish to be jostled about. The familiar odor of empty tea cups and unclean toilets greeted me upon entering. It stirred something in the depths of my memory – something that had been buried under heaps of other things.

            My seat was by a window. The compartment was packed to suffocation, admitting scarcely any space to move. As I pushed my way through the fidgeting groups of people, I was haunted by a consciousness of being watched by many eyes. I kept my eyes lowered, fearing  that they might betray me if anyone chanced to look into them.

            Though I eschewed looking at people in general, one man attracted my particular notice. He sat right opposite to me, clutching a little bag close to his chest. He was dressed very simply, and there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance, yet I fancied I caught something in his mien – something elusive that was suggestive of affluence. There was a sort of charm about him that was incongruous with his looks. He gave me the impression of a sedate island in the midst of tempestuous seas.

            The train let out a low whistle and began moving. I looked out through the bars in the window – they did not hinder my view; I had become quite used to them now. Blur, grim shapes of trees and buildings shot past. One by one the lights in the compartment were extinguished, and somnolent hush hung in the air. The crowd had finally precipitated.

            I thought it alright now to leave the window and look around a bit. I was in no more danger of being stared at. I sighed softly. It is an uncomfortable sensation to be alone in a box full of people – just like feeling lost on roads that you walk every day. My eyes instinctively fell on the man who had caught my notice upon first entering the compartment. His figure was still. I thought he was asleep. But the next snatch of moonlight that fell on his face showed me that he was wide awake. His keen eyes had me fixed in an intent gaze. I looked away hurriedly, unsettled.

            “No sleep?” he asked softly.

            I knew this question was addressed to me – everybody else within range of hearing was fast asleep. Yet I looked around a bit before meeting his gaze again. I did not speak, but I suppose he found answer enough in my look. His face broke into a smile. A foolish, innocuous smile, I thought. Foolish, but not unpleasant. It made his face look strangely childish – as if the few gray hairs above his ears and the crow’s feet around his eyes had been painted on, just for fun.

            “Where are you going?” he asked.

            “Home,” I said simply.

            I have always harbored an extreme abhorrence to striking up conversations with strangers. On this occasion, it should have risen up with full force, fortified as it now was with a mind that had been pushed into the pits of reclusiveness by long hours of solitude. But somehow, it didn’t. When I replied, “Home,” I felt no inclination to be as curt as possible, to concentrate every ounce of moroseness I could gather into that one word and fling it at this man in a way that would convince him of how unwelcome his friendliness was. No, I felt none of that. Strange.

            “Where do you come from?” he asked.

            “Central Jail.”

            A long, undisturbed silence followed, and I was quite convinced that my reply had driven out of him all desire to be gregarious. But just as I was about to turn to the window again, he spoke.

            “What did you do?”

            “Robbed a house and beat up the man who tried to stop me,” I found myself saying impetuously. This man certainly had a gift for drawing things out. I found that I could not refuse to answer what he asked.

            “I’m sorry – I meant to ask what you did before you went to jail.”

            “I taught at the school in our village.”

            I saw mild wonder float into his eyes. I knew what he was thinking. It was what anyone would think. Why had a man in so respectable a vocation stooped to thieving? A very natural question.

            You see, no one is born a thief. I wasn’t either. But some of us are born with an incurable disposition to covet things that belong to others. This disposition has evinced itself several times in my life – ever since I used to quietly stuff my pockets with a toffee or two from the Kirana Store when the shopkeeper wasn’t looking. He never found me out and my parents never new. I wish he had.

            Even now, I dreaded to ask myself whether the lure lay in the man himself or the little leather bag that he took assiduous pains to always keep within two inches of his person.

            “How long have you been away?” he asked.

            “Three years.”

            “Heavens! That’s a long time. I stay away from my family three months at a time – and that’s hard enough. You must have been missed very much.”

            “Not really,” I replied. “My wife is dead – died within months of my coming away. Tuberculosis, they said. But I believe it was the ignominy that killed her. She was a righteous woman.”

            I paused briefly. The man waited with respectful attention.

            “Well, that leaves only my sons,” I resumed. “And they would be rather relieved to be rid of a father who has given them nothing in life but a generous exposure to the world’s disdain.”

            “But surely, there must be some lingering remnant of natural affection that must have made them feel your absence,” he said consolingly.

            I gave a mirthless little laugh.

            “I believe hunger and poverty to be more potent than ‘natural affections’, as you call them. After I left and their mother died, my sons were left without a home, money or guardian. It pains me to think how they must have lived these past three years. No doubt they believe me responsible for their pitiable predicament. And they know that their prospects are not significantly brightened by my return, as I go back with an empty pocket and without any means of filling it.”

            The man digested all this before asking, “So, what do you intend to do?”

            “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to move to a new village. I won’t find any employment there, after what happened. And I must not expect help – I never had many friends.”

            “What a blessing indeed!” he exclaimed, his smooth voice suddenly taking on a tone of grating bitterness.

            I looked up in surprise, just in time to see a strange transition in his countenance. The skin was stretched taut across his face and his jaw had frozen solid. Perhaps he caught the inquiry in my look, for his features relaxed and the smile returned – the same pleasant, foolish smile.

            “Excuse my vehemence,” he said “but I am not disposed to think very highly of the group of people termed ‘friends’. I have had much to suffer on their account.”

            “In what sense?” I asked. My curiosity had been kindled to an extent that precluded all reserve.

            He leaned back a few inches – the maximum that his position could allow. The man beside him seemed to have confused him for some sort of pillow.

            “Well, since you have had the courtesy to be so candid with me, it is only fair that I should tell you something about myself.

            “To anyone who asked me, I would give this advice – stay away from ‘friends’. They are a pack of ravenous wolves, lying in wait to benefit from your foibles. And I proved to be the ideal prey – I was rich and naïv, and I took the adage that a friend in need is a friend indeed a bit too seriously. I somehow always thought it incumbent upon me to provide any help that was asked of me, no matter how ridiculous. My friends weren’t slow to understand this.

            “Well, you can guess the rest. I was plagued by frequent demands on my purse, which I always acceded, until one day I found that I was reduced to a common man with barely enough to survive on. After that, my friends conveniently disappeared.

            “It is like first begging me for a place on my ship and then casting me adrift. Until they had done that, however, I didn’t realize I had never learnt to swim. I had few talents that could help me to survive in this world, and those that I did possess were also dulled by unuse. Fortunately though, I found a job. It’s not an easy one, but it’s the best I could hope for. It keeps me afloat.”

            I found nothing to say in reply. I waited for him to speak again, but he seemed to be losing himself in the contemplation of some otherworldly cares. His brow was contracted and he was deep in thought.

            I went back to the window. The moon had been swallowed up by a cloud and cold air was creeping in, stinging my face. I wrapped my shawl tighter around myself. There was no sound except for the soporific rattle of the train. The sickening feeling of loneliness returned, dragging me into an uneasy slumber.

            When I opened my eyes again, daylight was filtering through the window. The compartment was alive again. The train had halted, and a part of last night’s crowd was getting off, only to be replaced by another, noisier one. I looked at the seat opposite me. It was empty – no, not quite – the man was not there, but his little bag was. I looked around, hoping to find him somewhere near, but there was no sign of him.

            Surely, he must have got off temporarily and would soon be back, I thought. Yet, it seemed unlikely to me that he would leave behind his precious bag. It admitted of only one explanation, and I tried not to think of it.

            The train began to move, but he did not come. I scanned the platform to see if he was running to catch up – he wasn’t there. Now, I finally allowed myself to accept that he was gone and had somehow forgotten his bag.

            A tiny urge began pulsating somewhere inside me. I tried to firmly push it down but it seemed to spring back up with renewed and magnified energy. It soon matured into a hankering. The more I tried to reason with it, the more I found myself giving in. The more I tried to stifle it, the more it tried to throttle me. In desperation, I turned to my conscience, but that too, it seemed, had turned traitor.

            I couldn’t, I told myself. But why not? The man was gone. He had lost his possession through his own negligence. He was never going to find it again anyway. The damage was already done. Nothing that I could possibly do would add to it. And besides, if I didn’t take it, somebody else was sure to. Even if I did, it would not be to gratify any idle desire – I was sorely in need of money.

            I began drawing breaths in short, painful gasps. Sweat trickled down the side of my face. It was an enormous struggle to keep my eyes away from the seductive little bundle and fasten them to the window with the few frail cords of integrity that I possessed.

            My eyes grew watery and began to burn under the strain. With every passing second, the ordeal grew more tremendous. I clenched and unclenched my fingers to get rid of the tingling sensation that was pricking them. It was proving too much for me. My nerves were stretched tight and thin, like the skin of a balloon with more air than it can hold – ready to burst any moment.

            I drew one last rattling breath.

            The cords snapped. My gaze swung around rapidly. I found my eyes warily darting around to see if anyone was watching while my hands slowly inched towards the bundle. My fingers touched it. It was snatched up and quickly covered under my shawl before being slowly unzipped.

            It was mostly empty except for something at the bottom. My hand dived in and caught up a bundle of fresh, crisp notes. My fingers stopped twitching and I breathed easy again. I felt a curious sense of fulfilment.

            Just as I was about to put it back in, I caught sight of something else, stuffed away into a corner. I fished out a small piece of paper, hastily folded up and written in a refined and elegant hand. It said:

            My Friend (I am sorry, but I found no other salutation.)

            I have struggled against my nature all night, but now I find that I am vanquished.

            I am leaving behind this bag, because I know you will take it if I do. It contains all of my three months’ earnings. To be sure, I need the money, but I find that our need is greater than mine. I hope that it may be of some use to you.

            As for me, well, I can manage.

            Yours,

            Gulab Rai

– Sahar Imteyaz