Writers' Block

By Bhavani Krishnamurthy

A contribution from our AWA Writers' Group members

1939: A Homecoming

(An excerpt from her novel in progress)

Glum-faced, the young couple sat, as the train pulled into Victoria Terminus. The girl’s thoughts were with the family she had left behind. The young man had something else on his mind. War in Europe… more importantly, the pretty pickle brewing within the Indian National Congress. It made him walk up and lean out the door, feeling the winds of change on his face.

Oh, to be at the ’39 Congress session, see Bose in action!

Out of nowhere, Subhash Chandra Bose had risen like a comet to challenge Gandhi’s hegemony of the independence movement, Nehru’s unquestioned status as the anointed heir apparent. Bose was sick of endless civil engagement: it was time to strike, he had said, and demand one’s right to selfgovernance like a proud people. His views were fresh and fiery and had quickly garnered him a following. Would the old guard let the reins slip from its hands, when freedom was looking years, rather than decades away?

The train ground to a stop. The young man pushed his hair back and scanned the crowds, a leftover frown marring his handsome forehead. From her seat, his wife stared apprehensively at him.

He was back before long, carrier in tow, sidling against a tide of exiting passengers to where she stood—in the way of their baggage. He checked his irritation, and paying no mind to the porter’s widening eyes, exhorted him to get started.

“We don’t have all day.”

The girl flinched, as if the sharpness was meant for her. As indeed it was.

Meanwhile, the porter had doffed his cap to reveal a flattened head cushion which, thanks to grease, dirt, and years of load bearing, had become a part of him. On this, he placed the trunk, the suitcase and holdall. The man’s neck danced delicately as he slid overnighters down his free arm and arranged other baggage about his person. With a show-of-eyeson-still-face to make any temple dancer proud, he indicated a long, covered bundle.

The girl spoke up. “Oh, no! The coolie cannot carry my veena.”

The young man looked balefully at the stringed instrument, his wife’s pride and apparently, only joy. He hated her tone, and hoped the porter had not noticed. The porter had only noticed that she was strictly not good looking but attractive enough. Impassive, he started for the exits.

The husband pursed his lips. It was always what she wanted, and no thought to making herself useful. He struggled with the veena, and tried to ignore her shrieks as its ends threatened to collide with the carriage berths. At long last, he found himself master of his possessions, and rushed off after the porter.

“Wait, give me your bag,” she cried belatedly. “Or I could carry the veena,” she added and finding no answer, hurried after him.

The party of speeding luggage-laden porter, man running to catch up, and wife bringing up the rear made its way out to the taxis. The fare was fixed, and not without some haggling. The bags deposited, the porter stood back glistening and demanded a tip.

A hot argument ensued, the young man refusing to back down, the porter declaring he had done the job of two coolies. They might have fought forever if the wife had not pulled a note out of her bag.

“Don’t,” the husband warned, but it was too late, the porter too nimble; he had thanked my lady, hoped her good nature would rub off on this skinflint here, and vanished into the teeming crowd.

The AWA Writers’ Group meets the second and fourth Thursday of each month. For more information, send an email to writers@ awasingapore.org