The Foundling- A short story by Sanjoy

Original story written in Oriya by Sanjoy Kumar Satpathy.

Time’s cruel hand had transformed me from a young cricketer to a middle-aged team manager. I was taking a bunch of cricketers much younger than I was to north India for a summer cricket tournament. Though Delhi was not one of the venues, the boys had insisted that tickets be booked from Rourkela to the national capital.
The Puri-Hajrat Nizamuddin Utkal Express was late by three-quarters of an hour at Rourkela. The players were getting restless. Birendra, a Punjabi boy said, “Uncle, you must travel with us in our compartment.”
At this, I became thoughtful. Perhaps the boys sensed that I was upset. They at once reprimanded Virendra: “We shall call him either ‘sir’ or ‘manager’.”
I tried to correct the misunderstanding: “No, it is not Virendra’s ‘uncle’ that upset me. Rather the present situation reminded me of my own past as a cricketer, when I was like you.”
“Like you all, I too was somewhat naughty. It was around this time of the year that I was travelling by Utkal Express for the Frank Worrell Trophy in Lucknow. The difference is that I was then travelling as a player, with Purusottam (or Purusu as his friends called him) as our manager: a most interesting person he was. The honorific, ‘Uncle’ usually upset him. When Virendra called me ‘uncle’, I was reminded of him. Alas! He is now no more.”
“See, it was not my fault!” Virendra said, good-humouredly.
I continued pretending not to hear him. “ Nevertheless, the incident, which had then taken place, lives in my memory as fresh as ever. It haunts me whenever I travel in a train.”
“Sir, please tell us about it,” the boys clamoured.
“No, not now and in this hullabaloo. Let the train pull in. I will tell you the story once we are on board.”
The train arrived, and the team boarded it. No sooner had the boys settled down, than they clamored: “Sir, please tell us the story.” The train picked up speed, and I the thread of my narrative.
“That day too the Utkal Express was late by an hour. It was not possible for so many of us to get reservation in one compartment. Some were in S-5, the rest were in S-6. Manager Purusu was quite a sport, with a wonderful sense of humour. Unfortunately, his wife died after a heart surgery, and he had married a widow despite opposition from his grown up kids. Presently, he disbursed two days’ allowance and declared, ‘Now we shall talk about money only when we reach Delhi.’ He issued a stern warning to everyone, especially to Vikram and Gautam, that no one should address him as ‘uncle’, especially in the presence of women passengers. That form of address always upset him. He said, ‘Either call me by my name, Purusottam or just Manager’.”
“Some players started playing cards on a makeshift table by placing two trunks together; some others started reading novels, the rest sat around the players as interested spectators. The lot was so engrossed in the game of cards and chitchatting that before they could realize it, it was lunchtime. The train halted at the Bilaspur station. The manager had alerted everyone about the notoriety of the station, and asked us to be watchful. Orders for lunch had been placed earlier: so many veg and so many non-veg thalis. God alone knows why I feel so hungry during these journeys. Railway food, bland and tasteless though it is, I still find it quite appetizing.
“After lunch when I went to the washbasin, I saw a couple with their 3-4 year-old kid. What a cute boy, I told myself! Fair with ruddy cheeks, and jet black, shining hair! His mother ought to have put a black mark on his forehead lest some evil eye cast a spell on him. His dad was not so fair, but was well-built. It was impossible to know his mom’s skin color, as a black burkha had covered her from tip to toe, including her face. The boy was very restless, would not stay put anywhere. He mixed freely with total strangers on the train in spite of his mom’s repeated scolding.”
“The soporific effect of lunch ensured that some players dozed off before long. The child was with his mother. After lying down for awhile, I returned to the scene of the game of cards.
“One of the members of our team, a Muslim boy was so bored with the elderly fellow-passengers in his compartment that he soon joined us in our coach. He began chatting with the couple in Urdu. When the couple learnt that we were a bunch of cricketers, the lady lost the little inhibition she had. It soon transpired that the two were cricket buffs; hence they had named their son Imran after the great Pakistani cricketer.”
“The woman removed the burkha revealing the most exquisite face I have ever seen. Almost everyone in our team was a bachelor. One can only imagine what thoughts must have passed their minds when they saw the beautiful woman’s face. I wondered have I ever seen such a gorgeous woman? Maybe on the silver screen or some glossy film magazines, never in flesh and blood. If only I could find a girl like her, I would make her my own, no matter of what religion or caste she be.”
By and by, we learnt that the little family was from Bilaspur. The man was in the Indian Army, and they were going on a holiday. Men are by nature flirtatious. If all men flirt to a greater or lesser extent, how can we players be exceptions? We all had become oblivious of our existence in the presence of that full-blown lotus of early spring. Soon everyone was vying with the other to befriend the child. The child of a beautiful mother will always be much sought after by men, there is no denying the fact. Some men even try to entice the child from the mother’s arm directly.”
My players laughed aloud and said, “Sir, hats off to your power of observation! Tell us whether you yourself tried to cuddle the boy.”
“ ‘It is a sin to covet another man’s wealth or woman’. When I repeated the adage, I was ashamed of myself as I too had joined the other team-mates to snuggle the boy.”
“Imran found the overdose of affection somewhat stifling, and would run off to his mother every now and then. After sunset, his father spread a bed sheet on the floor and started his namaaz. We had nothing better to do in the dim light than to gaze through the window towards the crimson horizon rather aimlessly. We were all somewhat distracted.
“Alam, the Muslim player in our team, who had by now befriended the couple, would often take Imran to his compartment..” Here I stopped and said, “Okay, that’s enough for now. We are about to reach Anuppur. Isn’t this station famous for its samosa and tea?”
The scheduled stoppage time at Anuppur is brief. But the railway officials, especially the guards detain the train for a while longer. The shopkeepers and the passengers both benefit from this.
When the train started, I resumed my narrative, “That day, with Imran disappearing with Alam ever so often, we all lost track of him. All young players, we were very hungry. It was about 8.30 in the evening. The dinner trays were being carted, and the compartment was full of the characteristic flavour of railway food.”
“It was time too for Imran to eat. His mother began calling out for him. Wasn’t he somewhere near me a little while before? He was playing with his toy and I was busy reading a novel, James Hadley Chase’s The World in My Pocket. I remember vividly even now that when he first came to me and I offered him chocolates, he had said, ‘No, Mom will scold me. I shall ask her first and then eat it.’ Now, in the confusion over Imran I was unable to concentrate on the book. The Manager who was busy with cards said, ‘He may be there with Alam.’ Even that tip did not help. The whole team conducted a thorough search in the two adjacent compartments. People even looked below their seats. The mother was quite perturbed. The father blamed her and started scolding her in Urdu. Army officers seldom lose their cool; but, when they do, they are uncontrollable.”
“We then decided to pull the emergency chain, so that the other compartments could also be searched. The train was in a tremendous speed in its attempt to make up for lost time, and a tug or two wouldn’t help. The chain was pulled at several points and by several people. Now, there was no way Utkal Express would not stop. The driver and guard came steaming in; they were furious, and asked who had pulled the chain. The whole team said, ‘Us’ in a chorus. ‘This lady here can’t find her child.’”
“Even gods have yielded to the beauty of women. These were mere mortals. The driver calmed down and said, ‘The next station is Kutni. You can conduct a thorough search there. Also, the station master there will help.’
“But that half an hour was like eternity. The boy had befriended all of us. He had become a member of the team!”
“When Imran was not traced even in Kutni, the couple got off the train. Though we could not see the expression on the face of the mother with her burkha, we could sense her anguish. We had nothing to give but our heartfelt sympathy. We prayed for the safe return of the child to the mother.”
“The Utkal Express sped on towards its destination. In the gloom surrounding the disappearance of Imran, none of us was in any mood to eat supper that night. All of us felt that somehow, the team was responsible for what had happened. Before we played the first match of the tournament, the manager told us that we needed to win the trophy for little Imran. All of us were so motivated that our performance level was much higher than expectation, and we went on to win the tournament. On our way back, we again took the Utkal Express, with the same question in everyone’s mind: ‘Did Imran’s mother get back Imran? If she did, was he alive or dead?’”
Presently, my players could bear the suspense no more. They said, “Sir, what happened after that? Did you try to find out later on?”
I told them, “It is quite late now. Time for the intermission. I shall tell you the rest of the story tomorrow morning.”
The following morning, I was woken up by the hubbub in the compartment and the shouting of the chai wallah. I had just washed my face and was waiting for breakfast to be served, when a fellow passenger told me, “Kindly finish the rest of the story. I shall get off soon.” Obviously, she had listened to me intently the previous night. The players had finished their breakfast in the meantime, and sat around me to listen to the story. I resumed my narration without any further ado, as I sipped my morning cup of tea.
“Eight years later, I was again travelling to Delhi by Utkal Express, this time with my wife and my four year old son, to attend my nephew’s wedding. Suddenly I saw the same couple at Bilaspur. I could not muster enough courage to ask the gentleman anything. The mother had an infant in her arms. Had Imran then disappeared forever? I see the same question on your face as had occurred to me then. The gentleman asked me if he could borrow my Illustrated Weekly of India and started reading it.
After a while, I broke the silence and asked him, ‘Your son, Imran….?’
‘You know my son’s name?’ the gentleman said with a start.
I said, ‘You may not recall, but I was your fellow passenger on the fateful day Imran was lost, as a member of the Rourkela cricket team.’
‘Now I know why you look so familiar,’ the gentleman took a long breath and said. ‘I shall tell you what happened after we got off the train that day, but I have to prepare myself for that. Maybe, I shall have to get away from my wife for a while.’
“When he was satisfied with the situation, he resumed his tale: ‘The stationmaster at Kutni was very cooperative. He telephoned all the railway stations on the route and informed them about Imran, giving them his detailed description. He consoled us by saying that there never had occurred a case of abduction in the area, and the child would certainly be found alive, unless he had fallen off the running train. After four hours or so, he arranged for us to be sent back on the van of a goods train to Setola, the station where we had first noticed Imran’s absence.’
“After that, the gentleman fell quiet for sometime, and said, ‘I knew that only a miracle could have saved Imran and he would come back to us alive. When we reached Setola, we were told that no one had seen anyone with a child. In fact, no one had got off the train that night. The following morning too there was no news about Imran. I told begum jan ‘There is no hope. We shall go back to Bilaspur by the next available train.’ She refused to budge an inch without Imran.
‘It was evening, and I was gazing at the setting sun. During the day, my wife continued to ask every single coolie, vendor, railway official, cleaner, everyone she saw, piteously whether they had seen our Imran. It was eleven o’ clock in the night. Sleepless for two nights, the anxiety over Imran had driven sleep from us. We could feel the fatigue, though. Just then, I could make out from the conversation among a small crowd that had gathered around the stationmaster that a lineman had found a child on the railway track the previous night. However, he had not reported for duty that day. A ray of hope was kindled in our hearts. On inquiry, I found out that the name of the lineman was Babu Rao, a drunkard. He lived close to the station.
‘Without delay, we rushed to his house. His wife came out and started hurling abuses at us: About how careless we were, and how we were enjoying ourselves without minding the child, and so on. On the other hand, her husband had to put up with sleepless nights and beatings by the police. Was it his duty to attend to the child in the hospital?
‘When she saw my wife in tears, she calmed down a bit. On being asked how the child looked like etc, she narrated the whole incident: Babu Rao was on duty the previous night. When he was returning from the distant railway signal with a lantern in his hand, he noticed a child lying unconscious on the tracks near where the coal engine got its supply of water. He thought it was God’s gift to them, and took the child home. The childless couple had thought of adopting him. When the child did not get back his sense, Babu Rao took him to the hospital. On the way, however, the police caught him and, not satisfied with his answer about where he had found the child, roughed him up. Thus forced to speak the truth, he and Imran were escorted by the police to the hospital in a police jeep. This was all that she knew. Babu Rao returned home the following morning, and after taking a bath, he went back with some money. He had not returned, it was already so late in the night.’”
“The gentleman continued: ‘We thanked Allah, and with rekindled hope we took a cycle rickshaw and headed for the hospital. There we were told that a nameless boy had been admitted care of Babu Rao. On reaching the ward, we were amazed at what we saw. There lay Imran on a hospital bed without a bed sheet, motionless. He was on drips. Babu Rao was holding the hand into which the needle had been inserted. It was unbelievable, the sight. Imran’s forehead was smeared with vermilion and sandalwood paste.
‘When we went near the bed, the nurse said that they had run out of all the medicines. We needed to hurry. Poor Babu Rao had paid for the saline drips and medicines. Now he was not left with any money to pay for the medicines.
‘When he came to know that we were the child’s parents, he looked in dismay and disbelief. He merely mumbled: Now you take care of your son. So saying he hurriedly left Imran, kissing him gently. He could not hold back his tears nor could he hide them from us though he tried to look the other way. For a moment I thought that it would have been better if we had not heard of Imran. The man looked shattered. He must have started dreaming of a new life!
‘Imran gradually recovered in the same hospital. He was discharged ten days later. Amid all celebrations and a tremendous sense of relief, I couldn’t help pondering how a devout Hindu had cared for Imran and saved his life unselfishly. Little did he care for the child’s religion, when he carried him to the hospital. He could have done anything to avoid the trouble and the expenses.
‘On the day we were to leave the place, we thought of looking Babu Rao up. We found his house locked. We were told that he was on his way to Tirupati. His wife had conceived after ten years of marriage!
‘The incident haunts us like a nightmare even now. We try to forget it, as much for our own sake as the pain we inflicted on Babu Rao and his wife. It is some consolation that they were blessed by both the Muslim and the Hindu gods. True we got our Imran back. But we were forever indebted to Babu Rao.
‘Now Imran is in a boarding school in Hyderabad. A very well-groomed boy. Good at studies he is good at cricket too.’”
“Meanwhile noticing that my son had strayed away, the gentleman mildly chided me and said, ‘Now, take care of your son, lest another incident occur.’
“I asked him, ‘How did Imran fall off?’
‘Who can say, how he fell off,’ he replied almost in a whisper, and thoughtfully, ‘and how he survived? I only know that he returned, and know who to thank.’”
“What a wonderful story” all my boys said in a chorus, almost out of relief. My throat had perched from non-stop talking. Virendra opened the flask and said, “Have some tea, Sir!”

Translated by Prof. Sumanyu Satpathy MA,Phd(English)




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