THIS IS WHAT AGE IS ABOUT

As a student studying in a different city from my hometown, I had to visit the railway station frequently for my train reservations. Life was not as easy; the long winding queues and the suffocating smell of sweat, the heat, and the body-hugging closeness with people around sent shivers down your spine. A single fan on the high ceiling of the Charbagh railway station was the only source of air circulation, if there was any. 

At times, we could assert ourselves and make a separate queue for ladies, but most times this feminist move would be rejected by males waiting for hours for their turn. Obviously, railways had no such provisions, at least on the booking counters, even though they provided a seat quota for ladies on the train. In those dreary hours of waiting, I could simply shift my weight from one leg to another, hoping for a miracle to happen.

On the other side of the window, the booking clerk himself looked exasperated. Sweat continued to trickle down his face, and he often wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that had turned yellow. He removed his specs, wiping them often to prevent them from slipping. 

His ordeal did not end here; the crowd on the other side continued to inflict mental trauma upon him. Raining undignified statements, questioning his abilities to perform even though he had been doing his job over the years, were enough to drive sanity away from a common man. He was heckled, except that he had no support from his superiors. Grudgingly (Un), he had no option but to walk out or claim his cause as the only prevailing right. The troll army got busier the moment he left his seat; a nature’s call or an obligation to his superior was just as unacceptable as the sun rising in the west.

This is all in reference to the humor induced by this troller, whose inflammatory statements continued unabated. Those were not the days of computers, and reservations needed to be made manually after going through many huge registers. When his turn came, the clerk watched his application form, then he put his pen down, looked up, and retorted, "At least fill the form duly instead of wasting your energy abusing me." 

The man just pounced upon him, asking him as to what he had left out. The clerk at the counter simply said, “You have left out the gender column.” It was the final straw; not only was disgust visible on his face, but also audible in his voice: “Arre chaalis saal ke baad kya male kya female jo marzi ho likh de.”(How does it matter after 40 years of age whether a person is male or female? You write whatever you want)

This left the entire crowd momentarily forgetting their travails, heat, and tiredness, and each of us was surrounded by laughing people. At the same time, some of us laughingly recited the episode to those who remained outside the auditory zone. Bless me, God, I am over forty now, I thought.