(39) Shikhandin: Thirst
The Brahmin looks at the white man whose eyes are glazed over. His head, almost lolling. He must be thirsty, thinks the Brahmin, and then frowns, shaking his head imperceptibly. Not thirsty, half dead with thirst.
The man is a Tourist, a guest of India. Guests are Gods, aren’t they? That’s what Dharma says. Even when they are infidels. And if he, knowing about a guest’s needs, does not do the needful, would that not tantamount to sin? Paap? But Dharma also demands he retain his purity, remain unsullied by both sin and the touch of the lowborn. The Brahmin shudders. These foreigners are so uncivilised. Rama, Rama. They don’t even know how to drink without soiling the rim of the container with their lips, making it joothha! They don’t know the proper way is to hold the bottle or cup a few inches above their mouths, and throw back their heads to receive the liquid.
He shifts his weight from one sweaty buttock to the next. He is already doing penance by travelling in a train crowded with all kinds of life, low, not so low, and irredeemably low. Rama, Rama, Rama. He will take a bath and sprinkle Ganga water on himself and his bag, once he is home. Forgive me O Lord, he mutters. Forgive me.
The train judders. Iron wheels racing on iron lines touching flint, creating momentary sparks. Flint shards fly up. Sparse green fields, bald rock faces, goats and cattle with dung on their hind quarters, mud huts and shallow bodies of pee-coloured water streak past. The faces blur, and so do the defecating buttocks lining the tracks. Sometimes it is hard to tell a face from a buttock. Dusty heat slaps the faces of the passengers through the bars of the un-shuttered windows.
The Tourist groans softly. What possessed him to be a back packer? He is not hard up for cash. He could have travelled in comfort, in cleaner and safer surroundings, visited the regular Tourist spots, and stayed at decent three-star hotels, at least three-star. But no, he had to be different. Go and experience the real India, get an authentic adventure! Pah! What was he thinking!
He scratches his sparse beard. His seemingly vacant glass-blue eyes take in the people around him. God, what would he not give for a can of chilled beer! But he’ll settle for clean water. Especially now. Except that none of the oddly named railway stations in strange and out of the way places, where the train had stopped for many minutes before painfully pulling out, sold bottled water from brands he had been advised to trust by informed people, bloggers, vloggers, friends.
The man sitting opposite him, has a bottle of water in his cloth bag. He can see the shape of the bottle through the cloth, below the man’s hand. The white lines and the vermillion dot on his forehead set him apart from the rest. His eyes seem to be perpetually shut. As if he’s praying. Maybe that’s his way of keeping the heat and dust out. But his hand is clasping the bottle’s top like it would the hilt of a sword.
The Tourist licks his dry lips. He flicks his tongue over the corners of his mouth. Even the taste of his own sweat is welcome. That man has water, that man has water, that man has water… The words roll through his head like the chugging wheels of the train. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, and sucks at the walls of his cheeks. The saliva has thickened, but is still a watery thing. He swallows, coughs and sighs.
The other passengers stare placidly, with innocent curiosity. The Tourist is exotic. Something to look at in this dull space. They don’t wonder at him, the way we don’t wonder at a nursery-grown flower among weeds and trash, but stare instead, drinking in its delicate looks, perhaps mildly questioning why it’s not in its own place, in some neat and orderly garden. And, at the same time, they are not really interested in finding out, their curiosity is idle, just a ‘time-pass’ activity. They don’t look at the Brahmin directly. He is someone they do not wish to offend. They have given him as much space as they can. They would think nothing of taking other people’s children on their laps if it meant getting a place to sit. But Brahmins are given space. They also believe in karma and heaven. The Tourist knows this. He believes in the very same things. After all he came here to learn more about the great Indian spirituality, didn’t he? He wanted truth from India. Now he is learning to deal with thirst.
The last stop is a few stations away. How many hours is that? Will he be able to survive the last leg? The thought occurs at the same time to both, the Tourist and the Brahmin alike.
For the Brahmin it is his home town, native place, as they say. He will reach his own house and courtyard, with its goats and cow, and the holy Basil growing from a special elevated place where he and his wife light lamps at dusk. His obedient and plump wife! He can almost smell the pure, onion-and-garlic-free home cooking, the smoky peaty scent of coal and cowpat cakes, the oil and the ghee. He can feel her dutiful and respectful embrace. Perhaps he should give his bottle of good water to the infidel. That man is a guest of the country after all. He should offer atleast a semblance of the famed Indian hospitality – Athhitee Deva Bhava - and thereby absolve himself of any possible sin.
For the Tourist his destination is a homestay that was highly recommended in online forums by budget travellers before him. A homestay that is far from the towns and cities and all those overdone tourist destinations. One where the fabled, unspoiled Indian country opens up its arms like a virgin waiting to be seduced. That rare affordable homestay where the food is hygienic, and not overly spicy, and the bathrooms are clean though always wet. And, nothing other than branded bottled water is offered, the brands he can trust. The thought gives him strength. He can test his endurance some more. He averts his eyes from the Brahmin. But involuntarily returns with a quick side long glance, before casually looking away again.
The Brahmin sees a station pass. The metallic beat and the rhythmic jerking of the train relaxes his limbs. He leans against the hard back-rest. He taps his tongue on his upper palate making a soft chucking sound. He swallows a smidgeon of saliva, and brings out the bottle. Tilting his head back, he pours the water expertly into his mouth from a distance of six inches. He twists the cap on tightly after he’s done drinking.
The Tourist shuts his eyes. He cannot bear to look. He feels a nudge, a poke against the side of his torso. His eyes fly open again. Startled. Fellow passenger, a raggedy fellow with a streaming face and mouth stained red with betel juice, is elbowing him and tossing an eye over at the Brahmin.
The Brahmin has extended his hand, the one that still holds the bottle. He tilts his chin and indicates the Tourist should take the bottle. The Tourist does so, but first folds his hands, and bows his head into a namaste. The other passengers smile and titter. They know the Brahmin will never drink from that bottle again. But the Brahmin is satisfied. He has obeyed his Dharma and kept it too. The Tourist is thankful. His thirst is too great for him to doubt the hygiene of the water. How bad can it be? The man just drank from it and didn’t die. He is relieved that he can now finish the marathon and reach his destination without collapsing.
***
Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer who writes for adults and children. Her published books include, After Grief – Poems (Red River, India), Impetuous Women (Penguin Random House India), Immoderate Men (Speaking Tiger), and Vibhuti Cat (Duckbill-Penguin-Random House India). Shikhandin's accolades include runner-up George Floyd Short Story Contest 2020 (UK), winner 2017 Children First Contest (Duckbill) in association with Parag (Tata Trust), winner Brilliant Flash Fiction Contest 2019 (USA), two-time Pushcart Prize Nomination, and much more.