In the sleeper class from Pune to Aurangabad I sat across from a man. Next to him, on his bag, a book with ducks and trucks.
After the tunnel, he started to speak. I blinked to get him into focus.
“I am on my way to my mother, as my sister finds me as of this morning, impossible.” He opened his hands as a question, or an apology.
“She was quite urgent about it.”
“My mother is old, and sometimes she calls me the name of her brother. He was tall.”
“But when I was small, she’d say I have the face of śāhī vaibhava, and that I took after her grandfather who, during the monsoons of twentyseven, was the secretary of a diplomat.”
“We had a framed picture of him on our wall. The picture was yellow and gritty. I could not see if we were alike.”
“My sister, who was plump as a full moon, did not like that. I always gave her the last of our meal from my plate, this though did not content her.”
“But she did pack me something”, he smiled faintly, and placed a four tier tiffin box before him. Out of his bag, which showed a glimpse of neatly folded clothes, came two napkins, and carefully he spread one out on his lap.
From his pocket he took a small bottle, pressed its pump once, and rubbed the liquid on his hands.
“Here”, he said, “Eat. Please, eat.”
Thank you, I said, that was very kind.
I did not tell him how for the first time in weeks, something felt possible.
What is that book? I asked.
“Ah, yes. I write,” he said, “and I draw what I write.”
“Maybe in the village of my mother, I can teach a few of the alphabet.”
