Problems are like bananas – they always come in a bunch. So when I scooted back to platform number 3 and found the train I was supposed to board, I started looking for my name on the charts stuck on the coaches. I checked half a dozen coaches, and my heart had almost sunk to hell when my brain kicked off. I checked my ticket. It said coach number B1. The tickers were showing B1 in front of a coach. So I went in.
Oh my Seven Heavens! Hot north eastern girls! I stood there, dumbstruck and awed, and partially erect, wondering if my fortunes had reached the crescendo. Clad in shorts, they all owned pretty huge assets. The one exactly opposite to me was hot as hell. Pretty eyes, wavy hair, and mountainous breasts. I recalled all those wonderful sex stories from antarvasna that were themed on train journeys. I knew everything. I could execute it like Mr. Sins. I was ready for it.
“Could I see your ticket, please? “The ticket checker asked, overly polite for his profession.
“Sure. “I said and pulled my phone out. I had the ticket in my gallery. But I also had 4 porn albums in my gallery, which I seemed to forget. So as I opened it, vaginas flashed on the screen. I quickly scrolled down. The ticket checker stared at me as if I was a Mujahideen.
“Just a second. “I said and scrolled down further. At last, I found the ticket. He studied the ticket as if it were some staphylococcus specimen and turned to me, and spoke, with a sheepish grin,
“This is not B1, gentleman, this is S7. Go find it before the train leaves. ”
What the hell! I was 99.9 percent sure that the ticket checker was fooling with me. But then the girls nodded and laughed too, so with a heart shattered into a hundred pieces, and a shrunken Godzilla, I stepped down. 3 minutes left for tbe train to leave.
I ran along up and down the length of the train, twice, and yet I couldn’t find B1. As the train was about to leave I hopped into an unnumbered coach. It turned out that it was B1.
Who were my copassengers? A family of four fat, ugly people, a wailing kid with his unattractive mother, a child who slept so much he was probably dead and three North. Eastern. MEN.
I had no food and so I spent the whole 32 hours long journey feeding myself on overpriced undercooked semi rotten Samosas. Despite that the toilets were dirtier than a bug’s intestines, I peed a dozen times. I recalled how one of my friends had heroically recounted his epic stunt of jerking off in a moving train, and wondered if I should repeat it. But then I dropped the idea. I can’t work under extreme, non-romantic conditions.
I watched movies and listened to It ain’t me, repeated the lyrics and secretly cried. And then I got sick of Samosas and rain and everything I liked so I mummified myself in a blanket and dozed till eternity.
When I reached Katihar, I was a wreckage. And I could kill for a food product that wasn’t Samosa.
On reaching home, I gorged on the royal food my mother had prepared. I could give up Samosas for this food. Anytime. Unconditionally.