This may sound harsh but given how rarely we say what we mean and mean what we say, it does seem as if we have elevated hypocrisy to a fine art. We Indians have few peers when it comes to covering mumbo under layers of jumbo. Polite conversation and good intentions are a lethal combination often leading to unintended consequences. When we utter the fateful words, ‘Is there anything you’d like from Nebraska or Nasik?” we don’t expect to be taken literally, but therein lies the rub. Some years ago, an elderly couple, let’s call them Papa J and Aunt G, ‘hied’ off to Madras to attend a family wedding. Nuptials and honeymoon coaching complete, they were about to leave for the station when they got a fateful STD (no pun intended) as it was known back then.
Aunt Emily had belatedly decided to take them up on their offer, ‘Is there anything you want from Madras?’ ‘Nothing baba, just come back safely,’ her initial pious wish, was subsequently amended to, ‘Some crabs from Kothwal Chowdi, baba. Bring nice, live fleshy ones.’ Having sat up and asked for it, there remained no option but to bite the bullet and pick out fine representative samples of the species, ‘Crabus spectacularis’ for which Madras is justly famous. Purchases complete, the panting duo barely made it in time to board their train with the crabs safely ensconced in a tokri, or so they imagined. The basket was stored under the lower berth and Papa J and Aunt G relished their chicken pulao before turning in for the night.
“Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, sore labor’s bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,,chief nourisher in life’s feast.” Only the Bard could wax so eloquently on the subject of sleep?
As any self-respecting Indian knows, train compartments designed to sleep four are a frivolous Western concept: six is considered a luxury in India, while five is the bare minimum. The TTE (travelling ticket examiner to you high-flying types) was an enterprising soul; when a travelling salesman named Swaminathan boarded the train at Arrakonam with a request to ‘adjust’, he was happy to oblige. Swami bedded down between the two lower berths and things were quiet on the eastern front for a while. The crab vendor had never been a Boy Scout, since the subject of reef knots, cleft hitches and secure fastening of baskets was clearly a closed book to him. But then again, maybe I am doing him an injustice; perhaps Uncle J, unused to the steamy weather conditions in Madras hustled him through the packing process.
Those crabs, besides being live and fleshy as stipulated by Aunt Emily, were also determined to rid themselves of the stereotypical image, ‘Crabs can never climb out of a basket. If one reaches the top, the others pull him back.’ One hefty specimen, let’s call him Bruce, made it to the top of the tokri and thence to freedom. At that crucial point in time, the hapless Swami rolled in his sleep…
Here the narrative becomes confused and the details somewhat sketchy: Aunt G insists he was circumcised by Bruce while Papa J airily pooh-poohed it, “How these women exaggerate. That salesman just got a little nip on his finger. How to explain to him why we were carrying live crabs, men, the bugger was a vegetarian.” Thereafter the discussion rapidly degenerated into a free-for-all with aspersions cast on Papa J’s manhood, Aunt G’s credibility and so on.
Pandemonium reigned until an attendant arrived with a pair of pliers to separate Bruce and Swami. Bass howls from Swami interspersed by testy instructions from the attendant to hold still until Operation Pincer was successfully completed were overlaid by Aunt G’s soprano: a series of loud, piercing shrieks. Through all the confusion, safe in his throne on the upper berth with his trademark red bandana knotted over his large, hairy ears, Papa G directed operations with a military precision Rommel may have envied.
With public opinion solidly on Swami’s side and passengers venting on the ‘criminal irresponsibility of people who carried dangerous animals on trains’, neither Aunt G nor Papa J dared claim ownership of the crabs. The tokri was flung unceremoniously out of the speeding train while Swami received medical attention: several nips from Papa J’s hip flask containing Honeybee brandy. Of course there was hell to pay when they got home crab-less, but that’s another story. Warning the unwary traveller against taking parcels for strangers seems futile when clearly it is far more dangerous to carry parcels for one’s family.
