The second and final part...i tried to make the emotion in the ending a little stronger, but that would be enforcing something, something that is not characteristic of the entity of this story...or so i feel...
On the way he met Matroo chacha, one of those oldies with an opinion on everything. Every morning, Niranjan watched him take a bath on the ghat on the other side of the tracks. He had a large, grey beard, a wizened, crooked nose and a long, wrinkled face. He walked with a stoop and constantly used to smoke his pipe. He lived with his son and hence had nothing else to do the whole day besides giving unwanted advice to passersby.
‘So, beta? What’s the hurry? You look like you’re going to win the lottery.’ He guffawed at his own joke.
Niranjan’s eyes turned wide as saucers and he drew in a sharp breath. ‘How did you know?’
‘What?’
‘Yes chacha, I bought a lottery ticket with my own money’, he announced proudly. And then added hastily, ‘But please don’t tell my parents! They’ll punish me.’
‘I won’t don’t worry. But arre, you fool! Don’t you know it’s all a scam? No one ever wins; they just collect the money from you and announce an imaginary result. You’ve just wasted your savings. Tch, tch’ He looked at Niranjan disapprovingly.
‘Really?’ He asked, his shoulders suddenly sagging and his smile turned upside down. ‘No!’ he then shouted.
‘If you don’t believe me go home and watch the stupid draw! Now go!’ he said, resuming his puff on his pipe, an evident sign that he wished to speak no more.
Niranjan dragged himself home for the rest of the two miles, glumly considering the old man’s words. Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice his younger sister until she slammed herself into him, giving him a tight hug.
‘Bhaiya! Why are you late today? Mother is worrying, father is angry. Come in fast.’
He mutedly followed her home to an anxious father who first slapped him and then hugged him. His mother just sighed and ran her hand slowly over his face, then getting back to work. He had just been an hour late, but people in the village worried very soon. Unnaturally quiet, he spent the day rushing to school and then coming back to the chores that awaited him at home.
Later that night, when his father switched on the small, grainy black-and-white TV he tuned to the lottery channel. He too had bought a ticket, as always. He watched eagerly, hoping once again that he would win. Niranjan didn’t want to tell him about his ticket though. His father wasn’t a bad man; he just had different rules for himself than from others. Niranjan wouldn’t put it past his father to scold or maybe even beat him for wasting his money, while himself buying a ticket every month. But he supposed that’s what fathers did.
‘-ize money this time is ten lakh rupees! And so the lucky combination is…’ the balls started jumping around in their transparent compartments and one of them quickly rose above the others to stop into the slot. Then another, and another; the announcer reading them out as they came.
‘4..7.. 9..1..8! The lucky number is 47918! All of you check your numbers and may the winner celebrate!’ Then he went on to describe how you could come to their office and collect the prize money.
His father’s loud groan muffled the sharp yelp that escaped Niranjan’s lips. That was his number! He knew it by heart by now. He had won! The old man was wrong, he had won! Struggling to compose himself, he looked down to hide the wide grin painted on his face and set upon finishing his meal stoically. But he couldn’t sleep all night. All kinds of ideas popped into his head about what he could do with that sort of money. But he was very sure about the first thing he would do with his winning ticket…
The next morning he got up later than usual, seeing as he had been awake the whole night anyways. He freshened up and got dressed, picked up his winning stub, and strutted around outside his house, feeling like a king. Evidently overlooking the joy on his son’s face, his father told him to get to work and take the cows. He hurried along the cows at an unaccustomed pace, and pretty soon reached the grazing grounds. Leaving the cows to their business, he put a hand on his brow and tried to look out for the solitary figure on the bathing ghat. He wanted to rub the ticket in stupid Matroo chacha’s face, show him that he was wrong about the lottery.
In about a few minutes, he faintly saw a crooked outline on the ghat, bending over slowly. The sun hadn’t risen yet, so it wasn’t clear. But it couldn’t be anyone else, so Niranjan pocketed the all important piece of paper and dashed towards the distant figure, a sense of vindication pulsating through him. He wouldn’t bother waiting for the express today. Things would change from today. He would be on an express, rather than watch it. Looking neither left nor right, he made his way towards the tracks, the wind whistling through his ears, drowning out every other sound. When he reached his boulder, without a second’s hesitation he leaped high into the air as he joyously bounded across the tracks. That was when another sound, much louder, invaded his ears. He snapped left, and to his horror, saw the express barely two feet away from him. In his excitement, he hadn’t even heard it come. Now it was too late. The yell never left his mouth, and right after the single moment of excruciating, unbelievable, numbing pain, Niranjan saw his vision fade to black. But the last thing he sensed was the loud droning of the train, the relentless shrill scream of the express…
The next day, a newspaper article read: ‘Lottery winner runs into train and gets trampled’
‘Niranjan Vyas, a skinny eight year old from the village of Deverajnagar, was on the top of the world yesterday morning before tragically being run over by the Kalka mail. The driver says the boy had jumped in front of the train, seemingly from nowhere, leaving him no time to even try to stop. It would have been futile anyways, he adds, claiming it looked very much a suicide attempt. Although one cannot understand why the boy would do that, for in Niranjan’s pocket was found a lottery stub which contained the winning numbers of the previous night’s draw, with winnings of a million rupees. His parents are baffled by the turn of events. While his mother and sister is utterly inconsolable, his father is still reason trying to reason with himself as to why his son would do such a thing. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t tell me about the lottery, he’d never hidden anything from me.’ On suggestion of the possibility of a suicide, he got furious about the absurdity of the notion. An expectant reaction from a grieving father.
Matroo Singh, a septuagenarian who claims to have known the boy well says, ‘He was always a restive child. He’d confided in me that he’d bought his ticket in secret, as he hated his father and did not want to share any of the money with him.’ Niranjan’s family labeled the account as sensationalist and refused to give it any credit. Regardless of who’s right or not, it makes for a very complex story, with no theory or motive outlandish enough, and no rational solution in sight. Why would a boy kill himself after winning a million rupees? Or was someone else responsible? What happened that fateful morning? Investigations are on, with only the mute rocks and cows for witnesses. As for a verdict, only time will tell. The whole family is in mourning, and the villagers are consoling them, agreeing that this is a tragedy none of them will ever forget.’
However, by the next month, there was a new lottery winner and many other, more important things were happening in the world. People forgot about Niranjan, but ‘The Express’ still ran along the same tracks, through the same idyllic valley, the god-almighty din still shaking up those same trees and rocks…
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