The Announcement

Pramod sat down on his bed and bending down, began to tie his shoelaces. Done with one, he furtively cast a quick glance towards the narrow corridor lined with utensils and plastic storage bins filled with clothes, trying to spot his wife who was packing his food in the tiny kitchen. He was unable to see her but courtesy his ten years’ worth of experience from marital bliss, the pitch of the clanking and thumping of vessels convinced him that she was not in the best of mood. Sighing to himself and resigning to his fate of hearing the choicest of cuss words when he would break the news to her, he stood up and patted down his trousers. Manoeuvring his movements carefully so as not to step on any of the food-filled vessels lining the wall or upsetting any pile of carefully segregated clothes along the bed, Pramod made his way from past the barely visible television and stacked shelves beside it towards the kitchen. Sensing his heart beating faster in anticipation of what was to come, Pramod wrapped his arms around his wife, who shook her head in apparent displeasure and made a weak attempt to escape his loving clutches. Realizing that now is a good time as any, Pramod picked up the packed tiffin carrier with his left hand and without removing his arms, whispered in his wife’s ear,” I have to do a double shift today so I will see you again early tomorrow morning, okay?”. Having said that, Pramod quickly removed his arms and turning away with the tiffin carrier in one hand hustled away through the corridor and straight out the door. The clanging sound behind him told him that he had upset a few vessels on the floor on his way out but weighing the pros and cons of turning back, he sped down the stairs and was out in no time. He quickly made his way past the local tea shop and convenience stores, smiling and waving to the known faces still seated there and before taking the turn that would take him beyond earshot and eyesight from his balcony, he looked up and smiled meekly at his wife standing there. It was difficult to make out from this far, but it seemed like she was smiling.

Preparing himself mentally for a verbal onslaught the next day morning, Pramod quickly made his way past the closed and dilapidated Bharatmata cinema hall. Glancing at his watch he reckoned he could catch the 2:38 local which would surely be late by 4 minutes, perfectly timed to ensure he reached CST on time. He wished he had left his sweater at home as the afternoon was unnaturally hot for November. He huffed and puffed past throngs of people on the Currey Road bridge, making it down on to the platform just in time for the train to chug in to the station. Relatively empty, the carriage rattled along for 5 more stations, finally shuddering to a screeching halt at CST and depositing a multitude of people onto its hallowed platform. Pramod looked at his watch once again and beamed to himself at the perfection of his punctuality. He had exactly 4 minutes left to make his way to his work-station, 2 minutes more than what he would need. Having navigated his way through the group of people rushing to change trains or catch other means of transport to make their way to their workplaces, Pramod made his way into the office and was immediately greeted by the smiling faces of the outgoing shift-operators. Having signed in his name in the large register, Pramod offloaded his hand bag and tiffin carrier onto his seat and proceeded to gulp down some water from the cooler. In some time, his shift-mates made their way into the office and after having exchanged pleasantries and sexist comments about each other’s marital crises, they settled in to their chairs and started their days.

Pramod would often remark to his family that his job was mind-numbingly boring and if not for the tag of being a central governmental employee- the holy grail of economic opportunities for the Indian middle class- he would have easily left this job for something more engaging. He also often complained to his work-mates how a laid-back job as this was all he had wanted since his school days and how the only blot on his otherwise perfect life was the tiny apartment to which he had to return to everyday. If he was being honest with himself, perhaps he would confess someday that what he truly enjoyed was the vast Victorian Gothic structure of the station, which was infinitely less claustrophobic compared to his 1 BHK room in Ganesh Galli and the office which was bigger than his bedroom but by no means, a comfortable one for five people and yet afforded more comfort to Pramod than did his tiny room which he shared with his wife and two children. Having been at this job for the past 14 years, from the days of Victoria Terminus to the days when people still remembered it as VT Station, Pramod’s job was as predictable as it could get. Announcing the arrivals and departures of trains, which left and arrived as scheduled day after day, month after month and year after year could hardly be called an exciting job. The only excitement in the job was when lost people asked to make announcements for their families or when new trains set off for the first time after being announced in union budgets a couple of years earlier. In fact, the job was so precedented that Pramod could even predict how many minutes each train would be late by. The surprise would be if a train, in fact, was not late and arrived earlier than Pramod’s prediction. Perhaps by virtue of having a job that supported it, Pramod was a creature of habit and rarely deviated from his daily routine of grabbing a cup of hot steaming milk tea with Ravi from the AH Wheeler, discussing cricket and politics, often politics in cricket and sometimes cricket in politics with Mahmud from the suburban ticket counter just before the sun went down and taking a walk from Platform 1 to 14 and back with Carvalho, a ticket-checker right after completing his dinner. Having just got back from a round of intense discussions on whether Yuvraj and Sehwag were Sourav’s greatest finds ever, especially post their incredible performance versus England in the ongoing series and whether Ganguly himself should get into politics or not now that he had announced his retirement post the series win versus Australia a few days back, Pramod once again sighed, wishing he had travelled to Nagpur to watch Ganguly bat one last time. Cursing his ill-luck for not planning ahead of time, he slumped into the chair and looked up at the wall-clock. It was 8:40 pm, which meant that Shubham had just announced the departure of Howrah Mail via Nagpur and left for Pancham Puriwala for dinner. The Nagercoil-Mumbai Express would be late as usual by 20 minutes which gave Pramod around 20 minutes to gulp down his dinner and then start with the announcements for the Devagiri Express. He decided to make an announcement before retreating to the back of the room to gorge on the curry and flatbreads prepared by his wife.

Having cleaned up his tiffin containers, Pramod burped loudly and washed his hands at the basin before checking the wall clock once again. As the hands ticked to close in on 9:10pm, Pramod announced the last call for Devagiri and the arrival of Nagercoil-Mumbai Express. He took out his Nokia 5500 and dialled Carvalho’s number. After a few rings, the well-known jaunty voice answered from the other end. Having informed him that his dinner was done and decided that as soon as Shubham would return he would step out for his customary walk, Pramod disconnected and looked at the screen in front of him trying to prioritize his announcements.  As the Devagiri Express chugged out of the station, Pramod’s voice boomed across the atrium for all passengers of Hussain Sagar Express to proceed towards Platform 9 and of Gitanjali Express to proceed towards Platform 18. As he repeated the announcement again, he stared impatiently alternately at the wall-clock and his wrist-watch cursing Shubham for delaying his walk with Carvalho. Finally, after 4 repetitions, unable to contain his frustration any further he dialled Shubham’s number. With every unacknowledged ring, Pramod could feel his patience wearing thinner and his blood pressure rising higher. Preparing a list of abuses that he would hurl at the novice as soon as he came in through that door, Pramod dialled Carvalho’s number to tell him that he would be delayed. Before he could finish dialling, a loud sound reverberated throughout the atrium and Pramod watched shocked as cement and peeled off paint rained down beyond the glass windows in front of him and the station disappeared in a large cloud of amorphous dust.

Pramod, slightly disoriented at the sudden departure from daily routine, got up from his chair and walked across the room to the door. His initial suspicion was that there had been an accident which had caused the loud sound but something inside him was telling him that an accident could not literally send ripples through the century-old structure, vibrations strong enough to bring down rubble. As he opened the door, the silenced halo of the air-conditioned office was unapologetically broken by the screaming of people, the sound of running feet, of scampering children, of falling bags and falling bodies punctuated only by the ringing sound of what sounded like gunfire. Pramod had heard the sound of bullets leaving the barrels of guns and seen them do so only on screens previously and for a minute, he simply did not understand what was happening. His mind blanked out and his legs grew roots into the tiles he stood on as in front of him, the cloud of dust gradually cleared but only to reveal a cloud of darkness, which had descended onto the station. Pramod could not believe his eyes as a men, women and children threw aside their belongings and rushed helter-skelter trampling fallen bodies and fallen luggage. In the far end of the station, perhaps near platforms 15 and 16 a fire raged brightly and smoke billowed out engulfing the stores and stalls in the vicinity and enrobing the arches and pillars as it rose towards the central dome and out through the great windows. In the distance Pramod could see bodies crumple as they knew not where to run, as if my magic but turning his gaze further eastwards, he saw, to his horror, what seemed like two men carrying machine guns and firing at will. As shots rang out and echoed across the great hall, blood splattered across the floor and the pillars as bullets pierced through tissues and nerves. As the figures of the gunmen got more prominent, Pramod realized that they were heavily armed and approaching towards the west exit. His dazed existence was shattered by a father who brushed past him with his daughter in his arms, who was crying aloud, urging her to be silent so that they could escape unseen and unheard. As Pramod, struggled to keep his balance his eyes met those of an old lady, presumably fallen in the stampede that had ensued post the blast - lying on the ground, croaking something inaudible and extending out her hand as if asking for help. Stunned and unable to think straight Pramod gathered his balance and reached out his had to locate the door to his office and having grabbed it, pulled himself inside, closed the door and steadily made his way to the end of the room to get a better view of what was happening. As he made his way past Shubham’s bag lying on the chair – a horrible thought crept into his mind and with that a fear – a fear so dark that it rapidly crept into the deepest confines of his mind making his hands and feet tremble. On a cold November night, Pramod began to sweat profusely as he saw the scene of absolute carnage in front of him.

Amidst the backdrop of a raging fire and a thick black smoke that raged through the stationary carriages and covered most of the eastern extremes of the station, emerging slowly but surely through the cloud of rubble and dust that still hung in the air – were two men clad in black spurting fire from their machine guns. In front of them people ran wherever they could – mothers with their children in tow, men with their wives struggling to run in saris, youngsters returning from tuition classes, vegetable sellers and hawkers returning home after a busy day, college-goers out for a fun evening coffee, office-goers rushing home to be with their family. The unlucky fell as the metal hit their bodies and spluttered blood all over the adjacent bodies and pillars. The floor was by now red – the clear streams of blood muddied only by thousands and thousands of footprints. As the two gunmen neared the office, Pramod realized his only chance to stay alive lay in playing dead and bending down so as not to be visible to the gunmen through the glass windows, he made his way to the switchboard and switched off the lights. Just as he was about to switch off the lights, he saw a woman get down from the stranded suburban carriage on Platform 1 and run towards the central exit. An involuntary “No” escaped his mouth as the woman barely made it a hundred feet before her head swung wildly back, pushed back and almost off its cervical spinal support by the momentum of a bullet that pierced her cranium, as blood spilled forth in an aerosol, momentarily freezing her in mid-air before her body collapsed in a heap to her right. Stunned, Pramod moved his finger which was on the switch just enough to pull it down and plunge the room into darkness and sank down into the dark floor himself. Burying his head into his hands, Pramod contemplated his position. His brain urged him to stay put- a safe place where surely no one would find him and he could sit out this ordeal and yet in his mind he simply could not throw out the image of the woman’s body crumpling in front of him and an involuntary soft “No” exiting his mouth. The more he tried to convince himself that staying safe and silent was the best chance he had to survive and go back to his family – the more the images in his mind became blurred – his wife frying fish and teaching their son English simultaneously as Pramod looked on with his daughter tugging at his trousers to come and play slowly dissolved into a large pond as Pramod dived in, urging on his brother to follow suit and finally pulling him by the legs into the pond, the pond gave way to the vast blue night sky as Pramod and his wife, sitting on the terrace, looked up at the fireworks across the night sky and Pramod took her in his arms and kissed her whispering “Happy Diwali”, the smoke of crackers engulfed the terrace altogether as the two kids squealed and screamed in joy at the sprinkling light that burst forth from the crackers and soon the memory blurred only to refocus on Pramod, tears streaming down his cheeks, staring down at the face of his new-born baby and the nurse in scrubs telling him that it was a girl. As he opened his eyes, he felt a wetness on his eyes. Brushing aside the droplets of water, Pramod poked his head up over the desk and re-analysed the situation yet again. He realized that his point of vantage and the options available to him could be instrumental in saving many – many like his wife and children.

Nothing could have prepared Pramod for a situation like this and yet in his mind, he was clear on what was to be done. He picked up his microphone from his desk and dislodged it from its stand. He switched off his screen lest the light from it attract attention and, arms and feet still trembling but resolve now much firmer, sat down on the chair, pushed away from the desk, with the microphone in his hand. From here, he had a clear view of Platform 1 and that was sufficient for his plan to work. With an eye on the gunmen who were slowly but surely approaching the western main exit, eliminating anyone who crossed their path ruthlessly and to Pramod’s utter disgust, shooting at the bodies lying on the floor irrespective of the sex or age- Pramod began to announce on the public announcement system,” Please use the side exit on Platform 1 to leave the station premises or the south-eastern exit towards the police station. Please do not use the main exit on the western side and avoid the central hall.” The gun-men looked up and about to identify the source of the sound and discussed something amongst themselves. From his vantage point, Pramod could see that many people who had taken refuge in the carriages had already heeded the voice which they had come to know for years now, travelling daily on the suburban trains, and were making their way carefully towards the north-western exist on Platform 1. He hoped that people who were alive in the far end of the station would not come this way but would instead make their way through the south-eastern exit towards St. George’s Street. As he repeated the announcement again and again, he kept an eye on the gunmen who continued conversing amongst themselves and taking the occasional shot at a moving body. As more and more people made their way out through the suggested exits, Pramod, slightly enthused added to his earlier announcement urging people to not enter the station premises because there were gunmen inside. As he looked at his watch and wiped off the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, Pramod wished the police would get here faster.

An eerie silence had descended across the station- a silence unknown to Pramod in all his time working here. An unknown feeling boiled over inside of him – it was a mixture of multiple feelings – a combination perhaps not felt before – of anger – a frothing red anger threatening to boil over and consume everything, of sadness – a cowering yellow breaking down the resolve repeatedly and yet pulling itself back, re-composing itself again and again and of fear – an unknown billowing black void right in the centre of the body consuming all and then spitting it all out again. Despite the unique concoction he continued his announcements, keeping an eye on the movements of the gunmen who had by this time shot at multiple dogs who had also made these premises their home, much like Pramod, and also on the people steadily making their way out through the side exits. Every bullet now fired seemed also to pierce Pramod, seemed to hit him and make him jump up in pain and further strengthen his resolve to continue. As Pramod continued his announcements, he wondered where the police were and what was taking them so long. The watch on his hand suggested it had been an hour now that Pramod had held fort, although without a doubt it had felt much longer. As the two gunmen made their way past Platform 2 and towards the western exit leading towards Cama Hospital and St. Xavier’s College, a young boy who had been lying the ground, suddenly got up and made a dash for it towards the side exit of Platform 1. Pramod shook his head in anticipation for another body to fall before his eyes as the gunmen took aim and let free a barrage of bullets in the boy’s direction. Somehow the boy, taking cover behind pillars and posts, managed to avoid the hail of bullets as they razed past the structures he hid behind and with a final dash, with the name of his God on his lips, he made for the exit and before the two gunmen could come around the bend to get a clear shot at him he was out. Pramod, would have rejoiced the small victory, had the hail of bullets that just missed the boy, had shattered the glass window of his office and rained down glass in front of him. Although he shielded himself from the broken glass and in truth, was placed far enough from the window to get hurt, Pramod now realized he did not have a window protecting him from the gunmen and perhaps they had already seen him. Hoping against hope that they hadn’t he quickly ducked onto the floor, located a relatively clean patch and sat in silence hoping his position had not been given away by the shattering glass.

To Pramod, even his breathing seemed loud now as the footsteps of the two gunmen edged ever-closer. A round of machine gun fire froze Pramod to his very veins as his insides trembled. With great restrain, he stayed on the ground and did not move an inch, as he heard muffled voices outside. The gunmen were conversing and it did not seem like a language Pramod knew. As the footsteps grew spaced out and ever so sudden, Pramod realized that they were patrolling the area, waiting for victims. Pramod, increasingly, began to feel that the sound of his breathing would give him away and his paranoia started to induce images in his mind that he could have done without at this moment. As voices rang out again, Pramod strained his ears, trying to pick up something but alas, he could not understand the language. Another round of fire followed by a dog’s whimper almost made him spit out expletives. As the tension grew thicker, the silence interspersed only by the footsteps and the mind-numbing sound of gunshots being fired and the maniacal laughter following it – Pramod knew that death would be instead and bloody if he was found now. There would be nothing to keep the two bloodthirsty animals from shredding his body with bullet holes and mutilating it beyond recognition especially if they also realized that he was the one making the announcements. As thoughts of his mutilated body, his wife breaking down, his children wearing white clothes and his parents crying profusely over his dead body raced through his mind, Pramod’s consciousness was jerked back to reality by the sound of footsteps receding into the distance- the sound fading away slowly. With a tiny bubble of transparent hope rising through the red, yellow and black coursing through his mind and body Pramod raised his head a tiny bit and then his body to peer through the glass-less window into the station premises to see if the gunmen had really left. Seeing no sign of any movement anywhere, he began to feel around on the floor for his phone and having located it quickly rifled through the call-log to see it his family or Carvalho or Shubham had called him back. He saw twelve missed calls from his wife.

Pramod frantically got up and dialled his wife’s number but unable to connect through, he stepped out of his cabin hoping to get a better connection on the platform. As he opened the door, a waft of putrid odour hit his nostrils. Unable to identify the uncommon smell, he gingerly stepped forward and poked his head around the corner such that the balustrade came into view on his right and Platform 1 and the foot over-bridge on his left. Seeing no movement, he stepped forward. For a man who had just been through the ordeal that he had been through, the sight that lay in front of him should have been enough to drive him to tears but it simply numbed his senses. A piercing sound reverberated in his ears and his mind lost control of his legs as the feet, all too well-versed with the premises walked about amidst the unknown blood-stained floors and strewn bags and gears that punctuated the mortals, some lying immobile and bloodied and some whimpering and struggling in pain, trying to cling on to the little wisps of life and make their way to the light at the end of the tunnel. Pramod hobbled across the station, his shoes adding to the bloodied prints on the tiled floor, as he indiscriminately walked through splattered pools of blood and past people he did not know and now would never beyond their obituaries. As Pramod walked through what seemed to him like a circle of hell, the devastation and absolute shock which gripped him, clenched his heart and soul like a cold copper corset, making even breathing difficult in the air laden with putrid odours that rose from the bloodied wounds of the perspiring alive and the dead bodies. As he coughed and grabbed his chest trying to breathe, he became cognizant of two things simultaneously – a vibration in his trouser pocket and a familiar black coat lying in a few feet to his right. As he pushed his left hand into his left pocket to extract the phone he stumbled towards the black coat urging his mind that it was a common coat worn by all checkers. Subconsciously, Pramod received the call on his cell phone and raised it to his ear as he reached the coat and lifted it from the ground. On the phone he could hear static and a muffled voice mumbling something in-comprehensively while his mind wondered why the coat was so wet. As the voice started to clear out, he looked down and to his horror, saw blood dripping from the black coat onto the floor and streaming down his palm and along his radius and ulna, gradually diffusing through his light blue sleeve. Dropping the coat and taking a step back almost in fear, he looked down once again beyond the coat at the owner lying beneath just as a clear but teary voice crackled through the phone, “Hello? Are you there? Are you alive?” Pramod’s worst fears, darker and denser than before seemed to well up from the depths of his intestines as he stared at the bearded face- the same face but not those playful naughty eyes that always make stupid jokes and sexual innuendos- of Carvalho. As he looked at the empty eyes staring up at him, the hopelessness that he had kept inside so long overpowered his control and burst forth in a belching motion and Pramod could only avert his face to ensure his regurgitation did not soil Carvalho in death. The voice on the phone faded out after a few teary repetitions as Pramod, with vomit-soiled trousers and a blood-soaked right sleeve was carried away by two constables.

Pramod did not remember how he returned home the next day- someone must have dropped him off. He did not remember the teary hug of his wife, the confused stares of his children or the looks on the faces of his neighbours but in the coming days his wife narrated and re-narrated the story of her night and morning of uncertainty and the look on the faces of the neighbours as Pramod returned home – the looks reserved only for a man who had defied death and returned. Neither did he remember the next few days – they all were a haze of the mundane, interrupted only by sudden apparitions of bloody faces, of ringing gunshots, of blood dripping from a coat and two armed men nor did he remember what the newscasters screamed from their stations over the next few days. He remembered very less of his life till after a week he decided to go back to his job. His wife decided to accompany him and although it did nothing to lay the dark fears deep inside raring to poke their heads out to rest, he knew no amount of resistance could de-motivate her. As he boarded the 2:38 pm local from Currey Road as usual, the crowd in the carriage presented no suggestion of the ordeal the city had undergone barely a week back. The usual five stations and 15 minutes later he stepped down on the same Platform 1, barren a week ago but crowded and brimming over with people now. The familiar sounds of booming announcements over the public announcement system, of trains screeching to a halt or shuddering to life, of people clamouring to get past one another and chatting about the weather, about sports and politics, of hawkers attracting customers and of thousands of footsteps going about their ways. His body gave an involuntary shudder as he began his walk down to his work-station. His wife grabbed his hand and guided him through the multitude of people that he used to traverse quite confidently once. As he reached his office, to his shock he saw a crowd of people outside the gate – an anomaly basis his experience in his many years of service. He and his wife made his way through the crowd and into the room, which is when his boss stepped forward and started clapping. As the other employees joined in, a surprised Pramod was pulled aside by his boss and he announced to the room – “Our hero, guys!”

Embarrassed, Pramod muttered thanks which nobody heard before his boss wheeled him outside and turning towards the crowd outside said,” All of you have been coming every-day to meet Pramod. Well this is him and this is his wife”. Shocked, Pramod looked up at the faces of the few people who had gathered there. As an announcement rang out for the passengers of the Konark Express in the atrium, a middle-aged man stepped forward and hugged Pramod and whispered in his ear,” My daughter could return home alive because of you Pramod. I do not know how to thank you but truly I am indebted to you forever”. Pramod, still hugging the man, tried his best to keep his eyes from welling up and looked away from the crowd towards the platform and realized he was looking at the same place where the young woman had been shot down on the 26^th in front of his eyes. As they disengaged, he saw a group of 3 friends, probably college-going, running towards the platform and as his gaze followed them, they successfully boarded the train chugging out and celebrated inside by breaking into a jig as the announcement of the Kalyan local having left the station rang out through the atrium.