(1) The train journey had begun late last night. Even after submitting a letter from the Chief Minister's office to secure a ticket in the Emergency Lower Berth Quota, I was uncertain. The train was that crowded. Since high-ranking officials within the Secretariat were within my circle of friendship, many things moved fast. The Emergency Quota (EQ) of others would only be considered after those with records for critical medical treatments.(2) My father had 45 years of service in the Southern Railway. Having retired as Station Superintendent from Thiruvananthapuram Central, his knowledge and service proved useful to me in later train travels. During the time my maternal uncle Naseer stayed in Madras, our close relatives used my father's free travel passes to journey there in the early days of cinema—that was a time long past... Many relatives, who benefited in various ways, now seem to have forgotten those times—even us. These records appear before our eyes when we rummage through old boxes. We also have relatives who now turn back on their word, claiming such a thing never happened before! This train is full of couples and children who have been traveling to the capital city's Sree Chithra Medical Centre and Regional Cancer Centre from the northern districts for months, undergoing treatment, and now returning. Among them are utterly beautiful, lovable children, aged one, four, and also those below and above ten. These children, whose parents' laps and chests are laden with frozen sorrow, are in pain and whimper, tempting my hands to hold and pamper them.(3) Hospital tubes are taped from the nose to the head and most parts of their body. I saw tiny infants with tubes inserted through holes drilled in their heads... Perhaps for breathing... or to provide food and medicine on time. Many of the parents are in their early forties. Some are accompanied by their own mothers or fathers. There are those who lament the fate of their daughters even after marriage, and others who do not. The bogie I'm lying in is mostly filled with those wearing the purdah and mufftah. Opposite my seat is a couple with a distressed face, weary from years of crying. The man, the woman, and the baby in her lap all have a lovely radiance. The child must be about 4 years old—a very sweet little girl. A tube runs from her nose, taped up to her head. The remnant of an IV syringe, used for drip while in the hospital bed, is taped to her right hand. The child indicates the discomfort of all this to her mother with a whine. I guessed the mother was about 40 and the husband about 45. He was thin, looking somewhat like a Primary School teacher. He had a wispy beard. The mother's feet were stretched out toward my berth. In her effort to seat the child upright on her lap, I was kicked three or four times on my body.(4) I lay quietly, thinking she was the mother of a sick child and her mind must be troubled. But I wondered how I would endure these kicks all night. I felt a desire to get to know them and find out about the little child's illness. It could be a brain tumor, cancer, or heart treatment. They would have no other way to get a priority ticket on such a crowded train from so far away. The train was at its maximum speed. I lay there, enjoying the pleasant rocking motion inside the bogie and watching the child's whimpering... I hadn't closed my eyes for even five minutes when the child's pained, loud wail woke me up. Surprised by what was happening, I looked at the woman's lap. She was desperately trying to quiet the child. The man with the wispy beard was nowhere to be seen. I asked where her husband was. She said he had gotten the berth at the end of the bogie. She added, "Poor soul, he must be exhausted and sleeping." Hearing 'Poor soul', I too felt 'pity'. Resting my head on my hand, I turned and looked at her... By then, the child had quieted down and was starting to sleep. She looked at me as if she wanted to say something.
So I asked:
"What's your name?"
"Sajna."
"Home?"
"Melattur, in Malappuram."
"Your husband's name?"
"Sirajudheen."
"And your daughter's?"
"Ayesha Fasna."
"There's one more, sleeping in the upper berth..."
"Saifunnisa."
"Is that so?"
I lifted my head and looked at the child. She must be ten, another child with a lovely face. Like a good soul, she was sleeping, exhausted, without bothering her parents!
"Where does your husband work?"
"He was the Headmaster at Vandur L.P.S., but he took a lot of leave for my daughter's treatment, and his job became difficult." I could hear her sigh.
My mind too became troubled.
Fate sometimes plays out like this in some people's lives. Illness, suffering, loss of livelihood... in different forms for different people.
"Where are you heading, Sir?"
I told her the place.
"Name?"
"Nizar Ahamed."
Her reply came instantly.
"I've heard of you."
I was surprised.
Perhaps it's because my pictures used to appear in all the papers—Mathrubhumi, Manorama, Deshabhimani—and on channels before... I thought.
"I'm not famous, Sajna!"
For a moment, as if forgetting all her sorrows, she laughed aloud.
(6) "You don't have to be famous, Brother (Ikka). Is there anyone who doesn't know Vaikom Muhammad Basheer's Kunjupathumma's Puthiyappala (The New Bridegroom of Kunjupathumma)?" I laughed too. I praised my Merciful, Almighty God, who gave me the opportunity to lift the sorrow from someone's heart, even if for a moment.
"Hasbun Allahu wa ni’mal wakeel; Ni’mal maula wani’mannazir..."
(Allah is Sufficient for us, and He is the Best Guardian; What an excellent Protector and what an excellent Helper.)
She was silent for a while, staring at my face...
I felt somewhat shy. To change the subject, I asked,
"Who is there at home?"
Her reply came quickly. "Mother, father, and 8 siblings. I am the eldest. The rest are 6 girls and 2 boys."
"Hmm," I murmured.
"How far did you study?"
"Tenth grade."
Then she looked into the distance of the bogie, as if to see if her husband was coming. Straightening the end of her shawl, she waited for my next question. With the innocence of a tenth grader, her question came abruptly.
"Nisar Ikka, are you going to your wife's house?"
(7) I flinched a little. A two-meter long, wide, white Mull Mundu (Dhoti), a cream-colored full-sleeved shirt, and a $20 Thorthu (towel) wrapped around my head to keep out the cold from my ears and head... This is my attire when I'm at home, and also when traveling and sleeping at night. Seeing all this, who would think I was making a grand journey to my wife's house?
The woman must be out of her mind, I thought to myself.
"No, it's a pilgrimage."
"Pilgrimage?"
"At this age?"
She looked surprised.
"Hmm..."
"I have to go to Palakkad. I need to visit Vellenazhi, Cherpulassery, and Punchappadam via Kongad. I want to see the famous Pazhayannur Bhagavathy Temple. I must also go to Sreekrishnapuram, Mannarkkad, Pattambi, Kadam pazhipuram, Thiruvilwamala, and Thirumandhamkunnu."
"Nizar Ikka, aren't you a Muslim?"
"Yes, of course! I didn't say I was going to worship," I replied. "I have many friends there for charity services and reporting." The train whistled and came to a stop with increased panting. It must be my destination...
I turned to her and asked, "Aren't you getting off?"
Looking at the elder child on the upper berth, she stirred, ready to get off, and then settled back.(8) Then she said, "Nisar Ikka, you go ahead. I have to get off two stations later... Melattur! Please pray for my daughter's well-being." Without looking at her, I said...
"I will surely pray." I asked for her number, saying I would call. While entering the number on my phone, my eyes searched all around for that man with the wispy beard to say goodbye.
I wholeheartedly praised the mental strength she had gained from her time of suffering๐ฅWe must be able to read others' minds beforehand... that is Mesmerism... or Telepathy... or else Mentalism.I sincerely pray that all good people find every blessing.๐น Palayam Nizar Ahamed Copyright © All Rights reserved© Palayam Nizar Ahamed(M.Nizar Ahamed) writer| Journalist |Blogger| Editor-in-Chief |Flash News Bulletindaily|Flash news, investigative reports & editorial writings
Author: Palayam Nizar Ahamed(M.Nizar Ahamed) writer| Journalist |Blogger| Editor-in-Chief |Flash News Bulletindaily|Flash news, investigative reports & editorial writings
(It is stated that the work gained many readers in various foreign countries according to the Stat Counter Weekly Analytics report.) TIPS ARE HIGHLY APPRECIATED Pyatm +9194476 88232
⚡๐๐๐๐๐๐๐⚡๐๐๐๐๐⚡๐๐
This post shares a tip jar graphic soliciting donations via Indian payment app Paytm (+919447688232) to aid freelance journalism and writing, underscoring economic pressures in a field where Indian journalists earn an average starting salary of INR 20,000-25,000 monthly.
Posted by @bulletindaily, a Kerala-based account blending news bulletins, blog promotions, and quirky videos on topics like tsunamis and live seafood, yet it attracts negligible traction with just 8 views and zero interactions.The appeal aligns with broader freelance media trends, as a 2024 Reuters Institute report highlights shrinking paid gigs worldwide, prompting over 60% of surveyed journalists to pursue side income through direct reader support.
~2.jpg)
