Chapter 3: Chhote Baba ki Majboori
The train gave a violent, sudden lurch as it switched tracks. A collective gasp rose in the compartment. Luggage shifted. The old woman across the aisle clutched her shawl. For Ramashankar, perched precariously on the edge of the lower berth, it was catastrophic.
His small body was thrown sideways, his left hand flying out for balance. It landed, palm flat and hot, on the bare skin of Ruby’s thigh where her saree had ridden up. He yanked it back as if scalded, nearly toppling onto the floor. Ruby’s own hand shot out, not to steady herself, but to grasp his thin forearm.
“Sasurji! Sambhalo aap!” Her voice was loud with concern, performance-grade.
She didn’t just help him sit back. She pulled him, his slight weight nothing against her strength. In the process, his face, level with her seated torso, was dragged across the landscape of her body. His wrinkled cheek pressed momentarily against the soft, heavy curve of her breast, muffled by the thin, damp fabric of her choli. The smell of her sweat—saline, floral from the morning’s talcum powder—filled his nostrils.
He scrambled back into his corner, a flush of deep crimson spreading from his neck up to his bald pate. His breath came in short, sharp puffs. “Chhod do… chhod do, beta,” he wheezed, his eyes screwed shut.
Ruby released his arm slowly. She smoothed her saree, her fingers trailing over the very spot his hand had touched. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried to the college students sitting two berths away. “Arey, Sasurji, aap kyun itna sharmate hain? Aap ghar ke mukhiya hain. Aapko toh mera dhyaan rakhna chahiye na. Train mein jhatke lagte hi rehte hain.”
Ramashankar dared to open his eyes. Her face was inches from his, her expression one of utterly genuine, innocent concern. But her eyes held a different light—a challenging, almost amused glitter. He saw the other passengers watching. The man with the banana was staring openly now, his mouth slightly agape. One of the college boys had taken his earphone out.
“Yeh… yeh kapde…” Ramashankar muttered, gesturing weakly at her midriff. “Ise thoda sambhalo. Sab dekh rahe hain.”
Ruby leaned back, laughing—a clear, ringing sound that cut through the train’s rumble. “Kapde? Sasurji, yeh toh latest fashion hai Vrindavan mein ab. Aapko pata nahi? Aaj-kal ke babu-log pasand karte hain.” She ran her own fingertips idly along the exposed dip of her waist, tracing the line where the saree’s border sat low on her hips. The silver ring on her finger caught the light. “Main toh bas aapki madad kar rahi thi. Aap gir jaate toh Shyam mujhe hi daant-ta.”
The mention of his son’s potential anger seemed to paralyze Ramashankar further. He was trapped. To protest more was to make a bigger scene, to acknowledge the intolerable intimacy of the moment. To stay silent was to condone it. He chose a brittle, furious silence, turning his whole body towards the window, a three-foot-tall statue of disgrace.
Ruby watched him for a moment, the smile lingering on her lips. She then glanced sideways. The college boy who’d removed his earphone quickly looked down at his phone, his ears turning pink. She had an audience. She felt it like a current in the thick air.
She stood up smoothly. “Pani leke aati hoon, Sasurji. Aapko bhi chahiye?”
He didn’t reply. He just gave a minute, jerky shake of his head.
The aisle was narrow. To pass, she had to turn sideways. As she edged past the old woman’s knees, her back, with its revealed folds and the tight knot of her petticoat, faced the compartment. She moved slowly, feeling the gaze of the man with the banana like a physical pressure on her skin. She reached the water cooler at the end of the compartment near the foul-smelling toilet.
As she bent to fill her bottle, the fabric tightened across her rear. She took her time. When she straightened, she saw the mustached man from earlier—the one Shyam had intercepted—standing in the connector between carriages, smoking a cigarette. He was watching her through the grimy glass door. He didn’t smile this time. Just stared, smoke curling from his nostrils.
Ruby held his gaze for a three-count, then turned and walked back, her hips swaying gently with the train’s rhythm. Her path back to the berth was a gauntlet. She was a pageant queen in a corridor of judging eyes and stifled desire.
She sat down, placing the water bottle on the seat between them. Ramashankar hadn’t moved.
“Pani,” she said, nudging the bottle closer to him.
He ignored it.
The train slowed, approaching a station. A new wave of passengers surged at the doors, looking for space. A group of four men, loud and boisterous, bundled into their compartment, smelling of cheap whisky and day-old travel. Their eyes landed on Ruby instantly, the chatter dying to a low, interested murmur.
One, a broad-shouldered man with a thick gold chain, grinned directly at her. “Oye, boss, yahan jagah hai!”
Ruby looked away, out the window, but her posture remained defiantly relaxed. She could feel Ramashankar vibrating with tension beside her. The gold-chained man and his friends took up residence in the upper berths opposite, their legs dangling down, their eyes level with hers.
The train pulled out of the station. The new dynamic was set. The confined space felt smaller, hotter, more dangerous.
Shyam chose that moment to return. He appeared in the aisle, looking weary, a packet of samosas in his hand. His eyes took in the scene: his father, a rigid, crimson ball of shame; the new group of men, their attention fixed like searchlights; and Ruby, sitting amidst it all, serene as a lake, the silver glint of her navel ring a tiny, defiant star in the smoky gloom.
He saw the gold-chained man’s leer. He saw the way Ruby slowly turned her head to meet his own gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but in her eyes, he saw the echo of her earlier question, now an unspoken challenge.
You left me here. This is what happens.
He stood frozen in the aisle, the samosas growing greasy in his hand, the momentum of the train carrying them all forward into a gathering storm he no longer knew how to stop.