A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

tea break, it would also be a break to
warm the hands and would turn into a
little picnic for the men. During summers,
large pitchers full of water would be kept
there. And there would also be the tea.
Neither the shunting stopped, nor did the
tea sipping.
Around the gate one could hear the
music of life: the melody of life playing
among the shunting engines. There was
a rhythm, the rhythm of struggle. There
was a note seeking to defeat problems.
It seemed as if the railway gate was like
a stage-play that would never come to
an end. Characters would change, but the
play would continue. Dialogue would
change, and so also would the time, but
the play would go on…
The tea-stall of Raka Masih near the
railway gate was in fact a life-stall. Such
a carefree man like Raka Masih! How could
business and that happy-go-lucky attitude
go together…? He did not sell tea. He
dispensed good wishes. In front of him
the engines would shunt. In front of him
the ‘load’ would be prepared. The suspended
engine driver Raka Masih would
become sad. Rueful. Silent. And then, like
some great source of light he would begin
to glitter again. When he guffawed, his
entire thickset body seemed to laugh. It
was not he, but his whole body that laughed.
People thought, Raka Masih was a very
happy man. People were ignorant. Raka
Masih, who was laughing, would be very
sad inside. Those who laugh a great deal
create fear: why are they laughing so much?
Raka Masih created fear when he laughed
endlessly. When he stopped laughing,
people would often notice that his eyes
had become moist. And after that, there
would be a Lamp’s cigarette in his fingers
and he would puff smoke like a locomotive
engine! Masih’s entire service period of
some twenty-five years was spent driving
goods trains. Now, he had been under
suspension for two years. Suspension or
no suspension, he couldn’t care less. He
did not try for reinstatement nor submitted
an application or gave an explanation.
Yes, he was a strange man, this Raka
Masih! He had been an engine driver in
the railways. Fairly good salary. Free livery.
Free pass. He still had his B-Type quarters.
He also had his half-salary. But his
relationship with speed had been snapped.
Even in that situation Raka Masih was
a happy man. While making tea, he would
often break into a song, sung out of tune.
When the tea was ready he would narrate
some incident. Raka Masih was an album
of experiences and a thick book of
reminiscences. To hear him talk was like
watching a memorial, a memorial that
talked. And in a memorial’s life countless
stories are written.
When Raka Masih narrated a story,
everything would be still. The brick oven
for making tea would be alit. The water
on the brick oven would be boiling. People
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