The Awad Assam Express. I remember the name of the train because I was a kid then, and like all kids, I was curious and like some of them, I was developing a love for trains.
But, don’t ask me why I remember the name of the train and why I have mentioned it as the first thing in the story.
I remember that day clearly. While I sat next to the window, staring outside, watching the passing trees and shrubs, the buffaloes sitting on the grass fields munching grass, and houses made of wood, there was a man sitting in the same coupe. I clearly remember how mysterious he was, very into himself and at the same time very friendly.
He was sitting opposite my father in the compartment and they were talking about the things adults talk about when they meet for the first time as strangers. For example, they were talking about… no, I don’t remember. In fact, I wasn’t paying much attention.
I remember that in a few hours they had come to develop a camaraderie- father and that man. I didn’t know why, but my brother was not fighting for the window seat with me that day. I was too happy.
Hours passed, we ate poori sabzi and I counted the number of bogies of a goods train; there was a train which had eighty-nine bogies in total and took a total of four minutes to pass because it was very slow. Soon, evening fell.
Father and mother were asleep. My brother was engaged in something else, definitely not in a screen because we didn’t have any those days. He was on the top berth. It was well past midnight. The middle seat had not been put up on one side, and on the middle seat across, my mother was walking in a garden of dreams.
Perhaps, I should put a dam to stem the flow of words. But I won’t, I’ve decided. I should let my fingers decide the fate of this narrative and the fate of the dreams that used to hound me as a kid. After that day, the Awad Assam Express had stopped running for me.
A little boy of nine or ten was sitting by the window, staring at the red evening, rapidly dissolving into the darkness of nightfall, with huts spreading out in the countryside like groundnuts on a table.
He was thinking about the homework he had to finish before the end of the vacations, the city of Delhi he was going to see, once again, in autos and buses, visiting his many uncles, about eating the food there, and getting bored. For, he did not usually like people unless they refrained from disturbing him.
Suddenly it happened.
Something cold with a coarse feel to it, like leather, like charcoal, slipped inside his pants. And touched his penis.
That was the moment I gave in, not to apathy or displeasure, or even defeat. I didn’t even know something bad was happening to me. I did not resist physically, and he continued.
Details? There are no unusual details. His hands felt my penis and… and then when I didn’t resist, he started feeling my chest too. My nipples felt cold in his hands, as the slowly turning evening wind in the running train slapped my naked insides. I felt that something catastrophic was happening to me. I knew it was unacceptable, but I didn’t stop him.
For five minutes – or was it an hour? – I didn’t stop him. But I did eventually when his fingers started pinching my nipples. I didn’t have any nipples to speak of. I was a timid child, but in one or two years, I would have man breasts and my aunts would make fun of me. I would hate it if someone would touch me. And I would never be able to have a meaningful relationship with anyone. I didn’t foresee that I would begin to hate every man including my father.
I would never have let him go on for five minutes, if I knew.