The Motor Man

THE MOTOR MAN

Short Story by S Balachandran, B-503, Samruddhi, Road No:29, Sion(East),Mumbai-22

“The Motorman had clocked 15 years of accident free ride .But this day, closing his eyes, not caring to wipe the tears welling up, saying a prayer, he speeded up the train and hooted loud to muffle the impact.....................God! his count would start afresh from now. After 15 years and 36000 hours! Will he last another fifteen years?”


Yes, today I clocked my 36000th hour at the wheel. 15 years of alertness and vigil. The pride of carrying millions to their destinations safely, in this crowded Metropolis, be it in rain, in shine or in biting wintry fog, engulfs me as I prepare to receive the special award this evening.

My life has been tough, though. Getting a job in the Railways for this poor son of the Dockyards, in itself was an arduous task. Never had I imagined that the life I lead today would be mine. When struggling for the second meal of the day, to see Mom scratching the pot to fill seven souls would itself fill my stomach. Being the first born, I had to bear the brunt of the struggle, so said Dad and Mom. But this was not a daily routine. Whenever one heard the loud hooting of the sirens and saw the lining up of the long trucks along the Dock Yard road, one knew that hunger was going out the road for a few days. The signs heralded the anchoring of another Cargo ship, bringing with it handful of money for Dad and his co-workers. The next few days would be for feasting and the bubbly. Mom would only be too glad to convert our road side dining space into a full-fledged bar for Dad and his friends. The partying would go on for hours. We kids didn't mind it since the chicken, the beef and all the good food would find their way to our stomachs too. Mom would still be scratching the pots, not to trace food, but to clean the grime, the next day.

Schooling was a luxury, not affordable to all in the shanties. By the time one got over one's morning ebullitions, waiting in the queue to use the road-side comforts, it would always be late for schools, in any case.

But yet, Father Rosario wouldn't spare us kids. He would come every evening at the dotted hour, sit under the street lamp and make us read and write. He would wind up with prayers for us all. His tall, lean figure was a welcome one for us ghetto kids, more for the stories he used to tell and the snacks he used to bring along.

When Dad fell a victim to Union violence that day, little did I realise that the life we knew was going to change. Mom cried and cried at Dad's side that night. Even Father Rosario appeared concerned. The scratching of the pot to trace food, became more frequent. The very same friends who came to party in the good times, became reclusive or plain abusive. Life in the Unionised, Dons-infested Dockyard had become too tough for Dad. Finally Dad and Mom decided to move out to the suburbs, to find another job. The income would be much less, but the peace of mind was what mattered. Father Rosario decided to take me into his fold. Reluctantly my parents agreed. After all, it was one stomach less to feed.

The Days in the Church Orphanage are remembered more for the warmth I received and the love that was shared, than the discipline and the lessons taught. Yes, I also remember the traumatic wait in the cemetery when eight bodies were lined up for the last rites, crushed by a drunken driver the previous night. The realisation that I would never have to make those monthly visits to meet my parents and kin was numbing. Yet, Father Rosario was there, wasn’t he? His reassuring hand on my sagging shoulder was a comfort.

When I was admitted to the Technical Institute for my Diploma, little did I realize that I would soon bid my final good bye to Father Rosario, too. He did not even wait for me to return that day from the Institute, to tread back to his permanent abode. The loss was much more traumatic. I barely managed to clear the Diploma.

Then it was a struggle for survival. The Church had no way to take care of a boy at the threshold of adulthood. Even they didn’t know where I would go. The Dockyard Road was my only known shelter. Ten years had really changed the scene. The shanties were now double-storied. Bengali speaking occupants were in almost all of them. I with my Church-educated sophistication was surely unwelcome there. It took me days before I could get into one of the Punjabi Hotels flourishing in the area. At least it gave me shelter and food. The Institute had never said that a mechanic should not work as a bearer!

Years passed until that day when the regular customer whom I used to serve for the past few weeks, decided to be a bit friendlier. When he realised that I had a diploma in welding, he was only too glad to offer me a job in the Railway Yard where he had a contract job going. The offer was irresistible. That night I brooded over it. Suddenly it dawned on me that this was the same day Father Rosario had walked away. May be his soul was still watching over me. That convinced me to take up the new job.

The change was faster. The job got me closer to the Railway officials as well. I didn’t have to think twice when one of them offered a mechanic's job in Western Railways. I still remember the day I donned the blue uniform for the first time. The journey from a Mechanic to a Motorman was like a song. The officials were all very helpful and encouraging. May be Father Rosario was still watching over me.

That was 15 years back, to the day. 36000 hours as an engine driver, no, a Motorman. I have never repented this calling. 15 years of utter satisfaction. 36000 hours of accident-free ride in this Metro, where over 2000 lives perish on the tracks every year. Maria and kids were also proud of my record, grateful that my daily prayers were being answered. The sole survivor of a family, crushed in a road accident ,repaying the society by ferrying across thousands of commuters every day, for 15 years, safe and sound- certainly, Father Rosario is watching over me. I closed my eyes for a moment, in prayer and thanks-giving.
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As I opened my eyes, the apparition was there. The man was firmly grounded on the tracks. Right in the middle, with a rye smile on his face. Were his eyes glazed? Or were they steady? Did he wave at me? I yelled and yelled, and hooted and honked. But he was not budging. "God! 36000 hours of accident-free driving, and this?". But I knew the rules. I couldn't break suddenly and jerk out the bogies behind me into a pile-up. I also knew that I should not slow down, for that would make it more painful. I knew the rules, didn't I? After all I have been a Motorman for 15 years......Closing my eyes, not caring to wipe the tears welling up, saying a prayer, I speeded up the train and hooted loud to muffle the impact...............

God! My count starts afresh from now. After 15 years and 36000 hours! Will I last another fifteen years? The next 36000 hours? I was not sure. The apparition of the smiling, waving figure on the tracks would haunt me all the coming years, all the coming hours. Father Rosario, where are you and why did you take your eyes off me for a fleeting moment???????????