A productive railway journey

I was watching a television program about the service quality in hotels in the USA, in which a stern looking woman in her forties was complaining about her experience. “I was shocked,” she said, “to be asked by the staff checking me into the hotel if I was married. What business is it of theirs?” In a voice quivering with anger, she went on to vehemently demand that hotels — and airlines and rental car companies and florists and people in general — stop prying into people’s personal lives. I was amused because in India the concept of personal space is quite alien.

Twenty years ago, it was even more alien. I remember a 15-hour train journey I took with my wife in Indian Railways’ sleeper class, which is designed to facilitate communication and brotherhood and eliminate all semblance of personal space, with three people seated on a narrow berth and another three others facing them with knees touching. In this close proximity, you can feel your neighbour’s breath on your neck as he reads your newspaper over your shoulder.

The first few minutes were spent stowing large trunks of luggage underneath the berths and ensuring the safety of the important ones by securing them to the railing with a chain and padlock; unpacking pillows and mattresses and spreading them on the upper berth; and making certain that the elaborately packed meals — complete with plates, pickles and pappad — were easily accessible.

Once everyone was settled into their seats, the thin bearded man seated opposite us spoke.

“Are you both married?”

On hearing him, the others in our compartment — a bald man with large spectacles and a couple in their fifties — tuned in.

“Yes,” I replied.

“To each other, yes?” He guffawed and looked around. Everyone appreciated the joke: the compartment rocked with laughter. I smiled and nodded.

“Where did you get married?”

“In Chennai,” I said.

He wanted to know which marriage hall. I told him. He complained that he hadn’t heard of it, but luckily the bald man had, and was able to provide a succinct account of where it was, how many people it could accommodate, who owned it and how much it cost to host a wedding there.

The couple now joined the merry inquisition.

“Was it a love marriage or an arranged one?” the lady asked my wife.

“Love,” my wife replied in a low voice, her face turning crimson.

“That’s great!” she said, “Isn’t it?” She looked at her husband to effect a smooth baton transfer.

“Of course!” The good man took the cue in his stride. “It’s fantastic! Love is great, I always say. One of my classmates from Guindy Engineering College also had a love marriage. He is divorced now.” He gave us a few seconds to digest this; then went on: “When did you get married?”

“Four years ago,” I said.

“Four years?!” said his wife. “Where are your children?” She looked around as if expecting them to suddenly materialise. When they didn’t, she asked in the accusing tone of a defense lawyer interrogating the state’s witness: “Don’t you have any children?”

“No,” my wife replied.

“Ooh!” She sucked in her breath noisily. “How come?”
We stared back at her, unable to utter a word. Her husband felt he had to explain the question better.

“Is there a problem? Have you seen a doctor?”

We shook our heads.

The bald gentleman now entered the fray with a curt announcement:

“Dr Vaibhav Bhattacharya is the best doctor in Mumbai for sex-related problems.”
This was received enthusiastically by the bearded man. By a remarkable coincidence, his neighbour’s niece was married to Dr Bhattacharya’s brother-in-law. He said he would be happy to get us an appointment.

Construing our silence as diffidence, the lady said, “Don’t be shy. My niece and her husband did not have children for years. Dr Bhattacharya first used a cervical cap to induce fertilisation in her body; when that didn’t work, he recommended in vitro fertilisation and she got pregnant.”

“The boy is four years old now,” her husband said proudly, “And is learning to ride a bicycle… without the training wheels. They’re travelling with us in the next cubicle. Say,” he added anxiously, “I hope you’re ok with in vitro fertilisation?”

In a cold voice, I explained that we didn’t have children because we didn’t want to… yet.

The wife shook her finger at my wife and said:
“Don’t delay having children: women have problems with late childbirth. How old are you?”

“Twenty six,” my wife murmured.

“Twenty six?! That’s very old… We cannot waste any more time — you need to talk to my niece right now. Archana, come here!” she bellowed.

We were joined by a well-built lady exuding confidence, her husband and the four-year-old bicycling wizard. As we all moved to accommodate them, I looked at my watch: only an hour had passed…

During the next 14 hours, my wife and I acquired considerable knowledge about pregnancy and childbirth. And a year later we had our first child. I believe that train journey was the catalyst.