Suitcase

A short story

You buy a ticket, you get to the station, find your platform, your compartment, your seat…you’d think you’re set for the journey, right?

You work hard, do all the right things, stay away from harm, be ‘good’; you’d think you’ve earned your place in the world. And yet sometimes it feels like there’s no space to breathe.

PC: rishi on Unsplash

Suitcase

We were about to start antakshari when the new girl appeared at our compartment. She must be the window seat.

Ours wasn’t a chartered compartment, but it may very well have been. All of us were headed for the inter-college fest in Bombay. There was Sapna from North campus, the only one who dared to wear shorts on a train. Opposite us were Neha and Puja. Puja’s brother had claimed the top berth as soon as he boarded. We were all from different colleges, but the few minutes of finding our seats, chaining our luggage and the delight of discovering that we were all headed to the same event had filled the two-by-three compartment with a dorm-like camaraderie, tethering us four girls, with nothing more in common than youth and a shared destination, in a sorority that felt bigger than the sixteen hours we were going to be together for.

The new girl squinted at the seat numbers, mumbled and referred to her ticket a few times. Her hair was wet, drops of water glistening on her forehead. Her ticket was damp. She leant over me to read the number of the window seat, where Sapna sat, consulted her ticket, and read the number again.

“Yours?” asked Sapna.

She nodded apologetically. Sapna scooched over to me and the new girl side-shuffled in, holding on to the upper berth to steady herself against the gentle sway of the train, her handbag and a small suitcase in tow. She looked under the seat for space, but we had stowed all our big ones there. She stood hers on the side and steadied it with her foot.

Nandini.

She placed her limp ticket delicately on the side table and wiped her face with her dupatta. She kept a hand on her suitcase.

“I had one big suitcase also. But I realized I was in the wrong coach. When the train stopped, I came over here.”

“And the suitcase?” I asked.

“It’s in the old coach. I had chained it. Right now there isn’t space to set foot in there. I’ll take it when we reach Bombay.”

The train picked up speed.

“If no one else does by then,” Sapna said.

“Then they can have it,” she said with a little shrug.

“Just like that?” Neha asked. “You’ll gift your suitcase to strangers?”

“They’ll do with it what they’ll do. I had to get out of there, there wasn’t space to breathe! ”

Neha tilted her head incredulously.

Puja offered Nandini a hand-towel to dry up.

“For me?” she asked.

Puja gave her a ‘take it or leave it’ look, and she took it gratefully.

Puja’s window was open all the way. She pressed her cheek against the grill, her hair flying back, her mind out in the fields, far away from our banal banter. Neha spread out, lying on her side, head propped on her hand.

“You do have a reserved seat?” Neha asked.

“Yes, but I was in the wrong coach! I don’t know how I got it wrong, I checked a thousand times.”

The rain had smudged the print on her ticket.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“They were too polite. They just went quiet. But there was no space. It took me a while to realize something was amiss, and another while to figure that that something was me.” She smiled helplessly with her eyebrows raised.

“What’s the fuss?” Sapna said, dismissing the discussion. “Just sit somewhere and enjoy the ride.” She sat cross-legged, her long, smooth legs shining, her knee pressing against my thigh.

Neha nodded. She had more space than she could’ve asked for, for Puja’s face was pressed so deep into her window, she was practically out. Yet, she would give an arm and a leg to swap places with me, I could tell by the way she hung on to Sapna’s every word, every movement. “As long you’re on the right train,” she added.

“I hope I am,” Nandini said with a nervous laugh. “Where are you all from?” she asked, beaming at each of us.

Turned out Sapna was from Patna too, like me. Puja was a Bombayite and dressed like one, a short top and low jeans showcasing her belly button. She was heading home with her younger brother Koushik. Neha was from Lucknow. She wore jeans and t-shirt like me, though hers were actual Levi’s, not a Sarojini nagar knock-off like mine.

“I’m also from Lucknow,” Nandini volunteered.

Neha looked up at the fan on the ceiling.

“Which college in Patna?” she asked Sapna. “My roommate is also from there. She’s the coolest thing on campus.”

Sapna smirked, accepting the credit on behalf of our city. She owned the compartment.

“Mere rang me rangne waali,” she started singing. “The one to dye in my colour.” Neha and I joined in.

“They were also playing anatakshari in the old coach,” Nandini said. Her hand didn’t leave her suitcase once.

She lowered our window halfway, so the wind didn’t get in her hair and held Puja’s towel against the censored wind to dry. The arthritic fan mocked at our misery. The little drizzle at Delhi had done nothing to lift the suffocating humidity. We sang the heat away.

When Mathura came, Nandini got up.

“Does anyone need anything from the station?”

We shook our heads.

“Can you get me the newspaper?” Koushik asked from up above.

She went out.

Sapna slid into Nandini’s seat and pushed the window all the way up.

“She’s buying your newspaper,” she reported.

Just then, a boy came with a wicker basket of guavas on his head and a kettle of chai.

“How much?” Sapna asked.

“Twenty rupees for chai, fifteen for a guava.”

“Thirty for both,” she declared.

He scanned our faces, doing the math in his head. I wanted to tell Sapna not haggle with a poor boy, but before I could say anything, he put his things down and started pouring our chais.

“What class are you in?” Koushik asked, leaning down to get his cup.

“I passed second grade,” the boy replied with a dare.

Sapna gave him a two hundred rupee note. I wanted to tell him to keep the change. Fifty rupees was a lot more to him than to us. But I said nothing. The boy handed Sapna fifty back. Neha asked him for extra black salt.

The whistle blew and the train jerked into movement. A gentle wind greeted us.

“What about the lost cow?” Sapna asked. Neha and I tittered.

“Did she miss the train?” Koushik asked.

“We can keep the window open then,” Neha said.

I scanned the platform as the throng of passengers and coolies and vendors began to recede. I didn’t really expect to be able to spot her even if she was there. “Looks like she really missed it. At least she has her handbag with her.”

“What about her luggage in the other coach?”

“If it’s still there.”

“We can take it, if she doesn’t turn up.”

“Steal it?” I asked.

“What about this one here?”

“Let’s open it and see what’s inside that she’s guarding so dearly.”

We were giggling at our own deviousness when she appeared, a little out of breath, guavas wrapped in her dupatta. There must’ve been ten or twelve. We reined ourselves quiet. I stole glances at Sapna and Neha, wondering how much of our drivel she’d heard. Their lips were pursed tight, their poker faces too poker, showing more than concealing, making a show of concealing. I went over what we’d said in my head and reassured myself that we hadn’t said anything too damning. At least I hadn’t. Sapna shifted back to the middle seat.

“Sit, sit,” Nandini said. “A boy was crying outside our compartment. Hadn’t sold enough. I bought all of it. For us.”

“Mother of kindness,” Sapna said. “How much did you pay?”

She flicked the question away when she saw our chais on the side table. “You did the same.” She offered the guavas to passengers in the next cabin.

She sat opposite us, between Neha and Puja. Her dupatta smelled of sweet guavas and pungent black salt. Neha bristled. She sat straight, wrapped the air around herself tight.

“Which school in Lucknow are you from?” Nandini asked Neha.

“La Martiniere,” she replied, her eyes on our berth, on the empty space between Sapna and me. Before Nandini could say anything further, Neha arose to go to the bathroom.

Sapna flipped through the newspaper. I took the sports section from her.

“Did you know each other from before?” Nandini asked us.

Sapna started singing, ‘Tera mujh se hai pehle ka nata koi…’ ‘You and I go way back’. I shook my head to Nandini, and joined the song. Nandini waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she joined in the singing. When Neha returned, she sat on our side. We sang a few more songs, till Sapna said she was tired and took out her Walkman.

“How are you all planning to get to your hostels in Bombay? Local or auto?” Nandini asked.

“A friend is picking me up,” Sapna said.

“I’ll take an auto,” I said. Turned out Neha and I were staying in nearby hostels. We agreed to share an auto.

“Local,” Puja mumbled.

“I’ll take an auto too,” Nandini said, to everyone. To no one.

Puja wanted to retire. She climbed the metal ladder to the top berth on our side and lay down. Nandini shifted to her seat and pulled the window halfway down. Neha and I shared a silent groan.

Sapna closed her eyes. On cue, the compartment went quiet, the clickety-clack of the train the only sound, familiar, constant, reassuring. Neha rested her head on my shoulder. I wasn’t sleepy. I kept my eyes open just a crack to see what everyone was doing. Nandini folded Puja’s towel, now dry, and kept it on the table. She had the whole berth to herself, yet she sat squeezed to the window, her bag in her lap, checking on her suitcase on the other side of the side table, every few minutes. She looked at Sapna, with an expectant half-smile on her face, like she was waiting for something. For Sapna to open her eyes maybe. Then her eyes moved to Neha. Looking at Nandini’s face, I could tell Neha’s eyes must be closed too. Anticipating my turn, I drew my eyelids closer until all I had was a gauzy vision through my lashes. She saw through it though. Our eyes met. Or so it felt. It was a feeling I neither wanted to confirm nor could shake off. Her half-smile shrunk further. She studied her ticket, even the back of it, which was in illegibly small print. She looked at the seat numbers above our seats. She continued to look around, searching for some other information, the coach number probably, probably still doubting if she was in the right place. That was when I realised that coach numbers are not indicated anywhere inside the coach. The only way to check is from the outside. She put her ticket in her bag.

“How much do you think the auto will cost?” Neha asked me softly, almost a whisper.

“How do I know?” I replied through closed eyes. “I have five hundred, should be more than enough.”

“We need to pay a deposit to the hostel too.”

“Hope their food is decent.”

“I have three hundred remaining, do you think that will be enough?” Nandini asked.

I hadn’t realised she could hear us. Neha did not answer. I didn’t know which way Nandini was headed, and even if I did, I knew nothing about distances in Bombay. She could ask Puja later, Puja was the local. And anyway, shouldn’t she have thought of this before buying off the boy’s guavas?

Neha’s silence hung like a dare. This side or that.

“More than enough,” Koushik said.

Sawai Madhopur came well after seven pm. We were hot, harried and hungry. We got down to stretch our legs and get fresh air. The station was as airless as the train. Pale fluorescent lights glowed softly, gently nudging the darkness a little over to the next light, that nudged it a little more and so on, to the end of the platform where all the darkness huddled to sulk. There was a lone snack shop, its wares barely visible under the low watt bulb. We bought cold drinks and mixtures and splashed our faces with tepid water at the basin. When the whistle sounded, we got back on and made our way to our compartment.

She was not back, again. I scanned the ghostly station. There was no one at the shop. From where I looked, I couldn’t even see the shopkeeper. The whistle blew. There wasn’t a living soul on the platform, still I kept looking into the darkness, as if she might appear if I looked hard enough.

The kitchen staff came to take our dinner orders.

“What about this one?” he asked, pointing to the empty window seat.

We said we didn’t know, maybe in the bathroom.

“Veg or non-veg?” he asked.

We looked at each other.

He mumbled ‘veg’ as he scribbled on his writing pad and moved on to the next compartment.

Sapna put her earphones on.

The train started with a tug.

“Finally we can open her suitcase,” Neha said.

Sapna took her earphones off. The suitcase was next to her. She didn’t touch it, neither did she move away from it. Koushik leaned his head down to watch. Even Puja turned her eyes on us. Neha was going to do it. I could feel it.

The train broke away from the stifling glow of the platform and we were swallowed by a breezy darkness on both sides. I walked down the aisle to see if she was by the door or talking to other passengers. Both the bathrooms were empty. I crossed over to the coach behind ours. There weren’t more than two or three people in every cabin. One group was playing antakshari. Suitcases of all sizes were stowed under seats. There was no telling which one was hers.

The train was going full speed now and there was no sign of her. I made my way back. The suitcase was still there, closed.

The guy came back with our food and left an extra veg meal for her.

“She was definitely not at the station,” I said.

“Who cares?” Sapna said, opening her meal. “We got extra food.”

“She must be in another coach, telling people there was no space to breathe in this one,” Koushik said from above.

The next coach was only a few seats across. I could walk over and look. And give her her small suitcase. Neha was watching me, amused. She was sitting close to Sapna, thighs touching, although it was just the two of them on the seat. Sapna beckoned me towards my meal. I craned my neck to look into the next coach one last time, but could not see anything beyond the swaying doors. Then I took the window seat that the new girl had sat on, and opened my meal.

The end

This story was featured in Mean Pepper Vine in July 2024. Enjoy their dazzling collection of art, fiction and non-fiction here: https://meanpeppervine.com/