The Platform

The Platform

(This article has been read 88 times)

Posted by samurai on January 22, 2003 (Wednesday)

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The man watched the beggar. The beggar sang and played his one stringed instrument, approaching people, extending his arm. The beggar needed money - money to replace his rags, fill his shrinking stomach. Maybe for a soap too. And a razor perhaps. The knotty, wrinkled arm was in front of the man. It looked feeble, sickly, full of bones. Then it passed by - the song fading away. The strumming of the one stringed instrument fading away; towards another part of the overcrowded railway platform. A fly buzzed in front of the man�s nose and he waved his right hand in front of his face. In his left hand he held a book � a paperback, a counter espionage thriller. The man was sitting on his brown VIP suitcase, surrounded by people. People he didn�t know, but who, like him were also waiting. People who were sitting, standing, drinking tea, playing cards, talking. A baby was crying � his mother in a green saree, bouncing him up and down. But the baby did not stop. Every minute he cried louder, and tears fell over his distorted face. There was a fan, high up, suspended from a truss. It whirled. No one felt it. No one knew there was a fan up there that could not move faster than a snail. No one heard it creaking. But it was there. There was also a clock. A digital clock. Also suspended from a truss. Also high up. People looked up at the clock from time to time. Then they looked down at their own wrists. The man looked at his own wrist. And sighed! And waved his right hand at the fly again! Then he reached for a plastic bag lying near his feet and pulled out a banana. The man peeled the banana carefully and took a bite. An urchin came near him. A hungry urchin with a big belly that his open shirt couldn�t hide; his open shirt and tattered shorts � their colour lost behind layers of soot. And the man quickly waved his left hand in front of him. The hand that held the counter espionage thriller. Then the man took another bite, and waved his hand again at the fly that wanted the banana. A loudspeaker somewhere up, crackled. He stopped eating. Then he relaxed and resumed eating. He finished eating and threw the banana peel. It landed in a pile of shit between the rails. The man grabbed a mineral water bottle from the plastic bag near his feet and drank � not touching the mouth of the bottle with his lips. Safely depositing the bottle back in his plastic bag, the man swiveled his neck upwards to his right. Upwards to where the digital clock was hanging high up from a truss. Then he began to read. A vendor pushed a cart. A dark brown cart with small rubber wheels. A cart with a roof. A cart filled with toys. Red, green, blue, plastic, metal, cheerful, cheap. The baby stopped crying and looked at the cart. His mother pointed to a balloon. The cart stopped. The baby extended an arm, wanting to catch the balloon. The mother moved him away. The cart moved on. The baby started to cry. The mother began to bounce him up and down. But the baby kept crying. And the man kept reading. He turned a page and crouched a little. Then he looked down at the plastic bag and turned back to the book, the counter espionage thriller. The baby grew tired. He rested his head on his mother�s shoulder and closed his eyes, sucking a tiny thumb.

The loudspeaker, somewhere up, crackled. The man looked in front, his book still open. Then he got up, put the book in his plastic bag, inserted his thumbs into his trouser waist and took them around. People around him, those who were sitting, began to get up too. Those who were standing began to move. Those who were moving began to move faster. The baby woke up. And began to cry. But the mother didn�t bounce him up and down. She clutched her bag with her free hand. The man picked up his brown VIP suitcase. In his other hand was the plastic bag. Then he put down the VIP suitcase and took out a slip of paper from the vest pocket. He looked at it carefully, then glanced down on the VIP suitcase. He looked up towards the trusses. Then he carefully put the slip of paper back into the vest pocket. The loudspeaker, somewhere up, crackled once again. A horn! The horn of an engine! The man moved forward, holding the VIP suitcase in his left hand and the plastic bag in his right hand. He moved towards the train that was slowly moving in. A lot of people began to move. Some began to run. The baby, still crying, moved on the shoulder of his mother. His mother clutched her bag with her right hand. The train moved over the banana peel in a pile of shit. It kept moving, slowly, never wanting to stop. People moved even more. Finally the train stopped. But people still moved even more. The man moved. The baby on the mother�s shoulder moved. But the urchin didn�t move. He munched some stale bread. He munched while others moved towards the doors. They crowded near the doors, like bees. But the doors were closed.