Laapataa Luggage
You know what they say "Savdhaani Hati, Durghatna Ghati". This was exactly that.
“Gaya station mein aisa kya tha dekhne ko?” Mum was fuming.
True. Kuch nahi tha.
It was just shitty timing.
Dad had just stepped out. Nana was watching TV with bhai.
I was faking deep sleep. (just as dad had suggested and in which, by the way, I was/am very good at)
So this question, really, was for Nani.
So what was it?
Was it that smart chap with sexy eyes, who introduced himself as some Rampal, the cousin of Arjun Rampal and the son of a mining baron. That cheeky bastard! He got off at Koderma.
As the hills rolled by, rosy dreams to the tune of tidik tidik—tidik tidik flitted through my 20-year old head. “Tujhe dekha toh ye jaana sanam”was blaring inside my head— FULL SCREEN. DOLBY SURROUND SOUND.
Rampal-mining baron-sexy eyes. What an idiot!
No. This happened much later. So what was it?
My huge chocolate brown canvas Safari suitcase, a small borrowed duffel bag, a few bananas and I, shared the side upper berth of the Purushottam Express. We had departed from the New Delhi railway station the night before.
I was in second year college. With the money I had saved—from the Rs 2500 I received in money order every month from my parents—I bought gifts for everyone; a cotton dupatta, a table cloth, table mats, t-shirts. Plus, I was also carrying ALL of my good college clothes and some cash. It was a long holiday.
It retrospect, it was a good haul!
By now, I had spent 16 hours perched on that side upper berth. From that vantage point across the aisle, all I could see were the standing/moving feet of people on platforms—no station names, no hawkers, no travellers, no scenery…nothing.
I wanted full ‘paisa vasool’. And this was the shitty timing bit.
We were approaching Gaya station. Gaya is notorious for train thefts. I knew it. Of course, I did. It just didn’t occur to me then.
So with a silly, stupid, beatific smile pasted on my bloody face, I disembarked from the upper berth just as we were approaching the Gaya station. I made myself comfortable on the side lower berth and started looking out of the window for a full ‘paisa vasool’ experience.
Vakaiyi. Aisa kya tha?
There was shit-strewn railway tracks, a train pulling in, a man trying to take a shower in the trickle of a cracked water pipe, and dogs and men taking a piss. It was hot, yellow and dusty. Enough.
It was time to get back on my perch.
What happened next is best described by terms like “Hosh fakhta hona” or “Rooh fanaa hona”.
The big suitcase was GONE!
I frantically patted the seat, pushed the air where the suitcase should have been, rubbed my eyes—perhaps it was there and I just couldn’t see it. I could see the duffel bag with a bunch of banana on top of it. But, nope I couldn’t see the huge chocolate brown canvas Safari suitcase BECAUSE IT WASN’T THERE!
I HAD BEEN ROBBED!
Fear, shame, disbelief, desperation, darkness, pain, numbness, stomach cramps, putty legs, potty urge — everything rushed through me at once. A dam had burst inside of me. And as the train chugged out of the station, I felt so naked, so exposed, so very very stupid.
I should have created a ruckus, pulled the chain, hauled up the police and brought the whole fucking station to a standstill. But all I could muster was a feeble “mera suitcase”.
Passengers tried to be helpful—like looking for an RPF constable—but could only manage commiserations and resignations—like “Ab toh nahi milega”.
It was a blur. Things were in slow motion and in 10x speed at the same time. I heard a faint “kamse kam doosra bag to bach gya”. DOOSRA BAG! THAT BAG HAD A PAIR OF VERY DIRTY JEANS AND A COUPLE OF CHECK SHIRTS. I HAD LOST EVERYTHING. I was screaming in my head.
Yes, that Rampal chap had come into the scene just about at this very time. The train robbery was nudged into the background. And for the next one hour it was tidik tidik—tidik tidik-the prospect of a new, rich, dreamy-eyed boyfriend-Tujhe dekha toh ye jaana sanam in dolby surround sound-Tujhe dekha toh ye jaana sanam on the violin.
The violin stopped playing after Koderma. And for the next six hours I could only hear my mum.
At the Tatanagar station, I waited for dad clutching the duffel bag. He was a few minutes late, which meant I had a few more minutes to firm up my story. But the moment I heard “Betaaa”, I turned around, saw my dad and burst out crying.
I was howling. The happiness on his face was replaced with concern, with alarm. He looked around.
“Where’s your suitcase?”
“Someone stole it.”
“Are YOU ok?” “Are you hurt?” Huh! The question I wasn’t expecting. Dad’s the best!
“NO.”
“Then?”
“MUMMY KYA BOLEGI?” And cue…more howling.
He laughed. He patted my back. He said we could handle it.
“Kaise?”
“When you get home, do what you do best.”
“Kya?” The howl was now a sob.
“Go sleep.”
I wrote this for the prompt “The Journey” during the writing circle workshop of
by and . Their latest workshop is scheduled to begin soon. It is highly recommended. Find out more: tinyurl.com/OchreSkyWriting
I lost count of the number of times I put LOL into real life action while reading. Loved the story, loved the storytelling, and your father was really so precious! (And yes, I am shamelessly binge-reading your substack today :P)
💜🌈🦋