Column

I had a lovely surprise on Women’s Day.

Running to catch a local, I found myself climbing into the ladies second class, to stand squished against the many schoolchildren standing in rather similar fashion.

Luckily they got off at the next station and there was some space to breathe - and even look around in.

Taking quick advantage of this, a man climbed in and proceeded to sell his wares.

I watched him, awed by what I saw.

He was young, maybe in his late 20s or early 30s, wore a striped tee and low jeans held at the waist by a broad belt with a huge brass buckle. His feet were in slippers, but his hair was what really held my attention. It was pomaded and slicked back, and at the temples was cut close to the head so it stood in bristles.

He held in one hand a black plastic bag from which he pulled out an unending chain of things attached to one another, little key chains and nail clippers and gee-gaws that hold out an endless fascination to women. He hooked the chain to a handle and, as it swung enticingly in the train’s movement and glinted in the changing light, he looked around to see if it had attracted anyone.

What attracted me, however, was the fact that this strapping young man, very much a matinee idol’s alter ego, was holding on his other arm, a baby.

It was about a year old, wore a funny cloth cap, a tee and shorts, with kajal in its eyes, and it was solemnly eating a biscuit.

I twinkled my eyes at it and it raised its hand as if to hit me. The man turned to look at it, with a look of what I read as sheer disgust, which deepened as he saw the child dropping the biscuit as it brought its fist down.

He lifted the tee from its tiny stomach and wiped its mouth rather harshly with it. The child spoke in a surprisingly deep mumble, saying something, looking in my direction… I think it did not like the attention I gave it.

The man ignored it and began to sell his wares loudly, in a harsh, street-crier tone that quite belied his aspirations and appearance.

I wondered what he was doing with the child. Was it his? Or his sister’s? Or someone else’s, someone who could not take care of it that day and had foisted it on this young man — who hated the job, but had to put up with being baby tender for the day.

Never in my years of train travel had I seen a man tending a baby while at work; times, I told myself, were surely a-changing.

I wondered how the two would fare by the end of the day. Would he care enough to feed the child, clean it if it should wet itself? He seemed to want to pretend it was not there, sitting on his arm.

The child began to cry, a low, deep-throated moan of discomfort. He mumbled at it, telling it to keep quiet.

Then he picked up the chain and moved away, to hook it elsewhere.

The train came to a stop. No one had shown the least interest in his goods. The child continued to threaten to breakout into a bawl. He thrust the stuff back into its bag and hastily jumped off.

The train stood in the station for a long moment - as it sometimes does - as I worried about the man and his ward.

I saw them as the train pulled out. He was sitting on a bench on the platform, nuzzling the child’s cheek with his nose, making it laugh.

I heaved a sigh of relief. They would be okay, those two. And I felt it was the best thing that I could have encountered to make my Women’s Day ring true.

Email: s_saran@dnaindia.net