The Train to Varanasi

A woman gave me a pot containing the ashes of her lover. ‘Give them a good wash before immersing them in Ganga,’ she said to me. 

I was going to Varanasi to attend a conference. I had also planned to meet Zeenat for the first time. I hadn’t told anyone about my intent to see her there. She was, after all, an unmarried girl. 

I was a bit afraid. You can imagine why. What if someone came to know the truth? What if a friend or an acquaintance spotted me with Zeenat and posted a photo of us on Facebook or Instagram? What if my wife discovered the truth? I had, however, readied some excuses and explanations. 

It was an overnight journey from Delhi to Varanasi. As the train left the station, I started chatting with Zeenat. I sent her a picture and begged her to send me hers. 

She: tx.

Me: Your turn now…

She:J

Me: You look absolutely… I can’t wait to see you…

I kept waiting for her reply and her photo. She kept me waiting. Station after station went by. After three long stations, finally, all I got in return was another smiley.

I wanted to see her glowing face. I was desperate to hear her voice. We kept chatting. Me — long sentences! She —monosyllables! 

When the train stopped at Meerut Junction, a woman got in. She held an earthen pot in her hands. She sat opposite me with the pot in her lap. The mouth of the pot was covered with a red cloth fastened firmly with a string.

 

I went back to Zeenat’s monosyllables and smileys. But I felt distracted by the presence of the woman sitting opposite me. 

I sat restless, fantasizing the impossible. Zeenat was patient. I was desperate. The window framed the setting sun. The cabin turned vermilion. The world outside — trees, houses, buildings, fields, people — faded away. The horizon vanished.

‘Will you do me a favour?’ the woman said, looking at me. ‘He died yesterday. Will you immerse his ashes in Ganga?’

‘How did this happen?’ I said, curious to know more.

‘It’s a long story…’

‘My prayers! Life is unfair.’

‘His soul deserves peace.Will you help me?’

‘Why aren’t you doing it yourself? Aren’t you going to Varanasi?’

‘I don’t have time. I must get off at the next station and go back. You will help me?’

‘I will do it for you. Don’t worry.’

I couldn’t take my gaze off the pot in her lap. As I glared at it and wondered what might have happened, Zeenat’s face flashed before me. I yearned for her. Her words. Her look. Her scent. Her touch. Her monosyllables and smileys.

‘Don’t keep the pot on the floor,’ the woman said, handing the pot over to me. ‘Hold it in your hands till you…’

‘I know the Hindu customs very well,’ I said. ‘I am a Brahmin, you see.’

The next morning, when I woke up, the woman was gone. The pot was placed next to the window. I felt sorry for the woman’s plight. 

I looked at my phone to check for Zeenat’s messages. I couldn’t take my eyes off her photo. 

The coach attendant brought tea and a newspaper as the train stopped a few kilometres ahead of Varanasi.

 

I leafed through the newspaper. Buried inside the pages, a small news item bearing a photo of the woman who had shared the nightlong journey with me caught my gaze. 

The headline ran:

 

A Muslim woman and her Hindu lover murdered for eloping to get married 

The rest of the news read: 

The incident happened two days ago in Meerut, Uttar Pradesh. The Muslim woman — a call center executive — had embraced Hinduism to marry her Hindu lover, who was a student at Banaras Hindu University. This is the one hundred and seventy-seventh incident involving honour killing this year. The authorities have launched an investigation. 

I looked at the photo for a long time.