A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

would become quiet. At such moments
some kind of absent understanding would
begin to take shape through Raka Masih’s
words.
Raka Masih knew everyone. From the
yard master to all the engine drivers,
firemen, workers of the locomotive
workshop. But only Raka Masih spoke.
When he was speaking it seemed as if,
not he, but the past itself were speaking.
At such moments it did not matter to
Raka Masih that his business suffered. He
was neither a shop keeper, nor he cared
for his shop keeping. It seemed as if he
was an open book of time. When the book
opens, some story begins to float in the
emptiness.
In Raka Masih’s shop keeping, there
was more good fellowship than shop
keeping. Once a day he would offer free
tea to the cobbler, to the barber and
to the betel leaf seller. Twice a day he
would carry tea to Paglet Baba sitting
near the dispensary. That tea too was
charged to God’s account…If some old
driver friend came to his stall for tea,
he would not charge him anything. He
would laugh and tell him, ‘You came here
for tea, that itself shows your largeheartedness.
To accept money for the tea?
That would be an insult to friendship.’
And there was one more thing about
him. The others said Namaste or good
morning; he would say, ‘Brother! Right
time!’ which meant, may you have good
health!
Raka Masih could play the mouth organ
fairly well. He had learnt it from someone
in his childhood or youth. He had learnt
to play the violin also but time had snatched
away the chords of his violin. Only the
mouth organ remained. In the night when
there was no one at his stall, and when
the night began to deepen, the sound of
his mouth organ could be heard far in
the lonely, bare night. That sound of the
mouth organ hemmed in by the noise
of engines’ shunting. In that cacophony
of sounds floated that innocent tune. Everywhere
that tune would wander. It seemed
to be calling the sky, the moon, the stars,
the fireflies, the dew, or God knows whom.
After wandering about the place, the tune
would return to him. It seemed as if with
the help of the sound of his mouth organ
Raka Masih was trying to recall his old
days.
One night…it was a winter night. At
some distance from Raka Masih’s tea stall
they had built a fire of red hot coal. Sitting
around that fire there were men belonging
to the railways. A few R.P.F. constables
were also there.
A cold night. It was eleven or half
past eleven. The whole city had gone to
sleep. But the yard of Jakhal station, the
gate, the kiosk, the cabin, the heap of
embers and the tea stall of Raka Masih
were still awake.
84 :: January-March 2012