Resumo de Miss Josephine

Mrs. JosephineThe train came to a halt and I was jolted on my wobbly rickety berth. I was off to Shillong in Meghalaya to join as manager in a tea manufacturing unit owned by the Tata co. It was my first job and for the first time in my wearisome life, I was heading for a city where I knew no one. The train has stopped I was sure. I checked the time in my watch which showed 6:37. I lowered the volume of my walkman and peeping out of the topmost wooden bed provided by our rail nilayam, asked my friend below, who was anxiously looking out of the window somewhat dazed and confused. ?Which station is it? ?, I asked. He promptly replied, showing his dirty yellow teeth, ?That?s what I?m looking for, you fool?. Without any more arguments or volley of questions with inaccurate and unsatisfactory responses, I jumped down. Arranging the air pillow slightly, with just an intention to grub something, I moved hurriedly towards the door clearly sensing a sort of different air outside. At least one thing I was sure about that the language being uttered outside is not familiar to our traditional dialects. Using fingers as a comb, and arranging my crew cut, I touched the platform floor and the vista in front of my eyes was fascinating. There was an aurora of thick mist all around which you can touch and feel. There was a stretch of green hill tops spread in vast landscape all around. Among people on the platform were a couple of old ladies wearing typical Anglo Indian worn out skirts, like their flickering age, holding baskets on their heads and selling bananas & guavas. For some moment I thought that I was still in the walkman mode where I was listening Hendrix for the whole night and lost in my fantasy world, but here everything was real & mortal. To check the authenticity that may be I?m still not in my illusion world, I moved ahead first to check the name of the station. But due to thick mist in this chilly December cold, I had to go very near the yellow board where the name of the Adlestop like station may be written. I say maybe because it had no looks of a decent station. In fact I thought that someone had pulled the chain and had stopped the creeping crawling train at some most solitary location between two uninhabited villages. I was more careful towards the slightest chance of the train?s jolt or movement rather than exploring the abandoned looking station. I saw the old ladies gain a new spark of energy as the train halted rushing towards the windows displaying their dozen of bananas or a set of five or six guavas. I thought of utilizing two works at a moment so I raised my hands to one of the ladies in anticipation that she would accept my call. The way she rushed towards me clearly indicated that the train would not stay longer here. I bought the bananas and guavas and passed it through the window to my friend. ?Come on! Pass me ten bucks? that?s what she said, and I was surprised. As I grappled in my wallet for the ten rupees she had demanded in a language, you can never anticipate, to be spoken by a typical tribal Indian lady, selling fruits at this early hour in the remotest areas of this part of the world. I congratulated her as I passed on a ten rupee note towards her, ?you speak beautiful English. ? ?Are you Indian?? I repeated in curiosity. And before she could say anything I remembered her. In fact I was doubly sure and I hit the final blow ?are you Mrs. Josephine. ? ?Yes! You are right, ?she replied. I heard my friend give me a call and the jolt of the coach made me turn around and board the moving train. I had a last look at the women as she got lost among the mist and I saw the name of the station as the whistling train slithered towards the next destination.

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