All Clear

(Short Story)

BY C. VENKATA RAO, M.Sc.
(Lecturer, The Hindu College, Guntur)

“The most interesting feature about unexpected things is that they do happen,” said my talkative friend drawing out his cigarette and emitting puffs of smoke between his words. “For example, look at my queer experience.” And he proceeded—

It was during the time of the threatened bombardment of the East Coast by the Japanese. I was reading in the B.Sc. Senior class at Cocanada, and all but my Chemistry practical examinations were over. We were to appear for these at Waltair two days hence, but suddenly we received information that our examinations were postponed sine die owing to war scare. This news cut short my stay at Cocanada by two days. Being suddenly and unexpectedly released from the shackles of examination, my heart bouncing with joy. I made up my mind to take the very next train to my home-town and spring a surprise on my parents. In this jubilant mood I boarded the Waltair passenger, blissfully ignorant of the series of surprises that were to be flung at me in a short span of time.

We were just a few stations from Waltair. The train stopped at a small wayside station and looked as if it refused to move. Soon the travellers grew restive and began to invent explanations for the unusual delay; some said it was due to a goods train coming ahead and others that it was military special. I added to the general mirth of the travellers in the compartment by suggesting that the station-master was taking an untimely nap and was thus unable to give the signal. Just then a busybody entered the compartment and said that he was coming direct from the station-master who told him that Vizagapatnam was being bombarded and God only knew when we might continue our journey. Now I had to sit up and face realities. What about my food? I was already feeling hungry, and there was no prospect of getting even a cup of coffee at that God-forsaken place. I was alarmed at the very thought of having to fast. I came out and saw there was a general bustle on the platform and that bunches of plant fruits, which were rushed there by the vendors for this emergency, were fast disappearing. There was nothing I could do under the circumstances. “But why not try the hospitality of the station-master”, said my inner voice. I knew he was helpless after all, and how far could his hospitality stretch? and what obligations would he feel towards travellers? I knew the result, but I just wanted to see the fun, because I always had a queer feeling (in those days) towards these station-masters. I always liked to cut jokes at them; the possession of a ticket, in my opinion, afforded me enough immunity against any unpleasant reactions from the other side.

I was always of opinion that station-masters as a species were cynics. Being hurled away from civilization and placed at the head of a small colony, they have a natural tendency to develop airs of despotism. I went to station-master’s room, prepared to receive a severe rebuff and an angry growl at the mention of my request, but I was determined to enjoy the fun if not his hospitality. He was absorbed in writing something and I said, in my official way, “Good morning”. Let me tell you, by way of information, that this phrase works like a charm with the railway officials. The most diehard ticket-collector will melt like butter before this phrase and will give all the information you want. With this you can also gain entry into the platform without a platform-ticket, and, if you learn to use it skillfully, you will in course of time become an adept and may even be able to travel without a ticket! The station-master, under the stress of the existing circumstances, was not moved. But I persisted. “I am coming from Cocanada”, I continued, as if that was a piece of information of which he was urgently in need. But this seemed to have the desired effect, because he suddenly pricked up his ears, raised his head and peered at me through big silver-rimmed spectacles. Imagine my astonishment when I saw that, instead of the angry growl I expected, the station-master was actually developing a look as if he was suddenly confronted with the District Traffic superintendent. He was all smiles and humility. He got up from his chair, and with profuse apologies to me that the present state of emergency prevented his leaving the station just then, he said that I could go to his house and make myself quite at home. He led me a little way along, and pointing to a Mangalore tiled house partly concealed behind a few portia trees he called to a jamadar and entrusted me to his care. As usual, the station-master’s family was watching the train from the verandah. At the sight of myself and the jamadar, there was a sudden bustle of activity and they quickly vanished into the house.

Now events began to shape out quite contrary to my expectations. I whirled into an unusual environment to which I had neither the time nor the ability to adapt myself. Though I liked to cut jokes with station- asters, I never liked to talk with their families, and, by nature, I was very bashful where women were concerned. But I could not help following the jamadar, who was all courtesy towards me. A few paces from the house, I could hear the quick shuffling of feet inside. The face of a girl appeared, like a vision, at a window and disappeared in a flash. The jamadar took me to the station-master’s own drawing-room and seated me upon his chair and said he would presently arrange for my bath. I was utterly perplexed and meekly obeyed, like one in a hypnotic state. In a few minutes, the jamadar returned and directed me into a bath-room fully equipped with hot water, soap and towel. I thought I was really receiving the attention worthy of a prospective son-in-law! But my mind refused to comment on the happenings. Mechanically I finished my bath and returned to the room, to find an array of toilet apparatus spread on the table. My surprise was slowly mounting to dream-like bewilderment. I was feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I was in the process of toileting when I heard the murmur of feminine voices in the adjoining room. Very soon the sweet voice of a girl came out in rapturous melodies, to the accompaniment of the veena. I was enchanted with the music and was wondering how even a small wayside station could have the potentialities of romance usually expected in cities and cinema films. In due course the melodies melted away and the curtain behind me rustled. Imagine my surprise when I beheld a sweet little thing, probably the station master’s daughter, slowly approaching my table with a plate of iddlis. She was the very picture of enchantment, dressed in a blue silk saree and jacket to match. Her sudden entry and my natural bashfulness prompted me to stand up, but she was already at my table and with a sweet little smile she deposited the plate on the table and said, “Please help yourself.” She did not dash out, but just lingered long enough to let me have a clear look at her. I knew college girls are a bit forward, but I could not imagine that they would be so even within the precincts of their parental home. I could not also divine the reason for the station-master’s wife sending her on this business, when there was the jamadar to do her bidding. I was too hungry to discuss the pros and cons, and very soon I took to helping myself exactly according to the dictates of the girl. In a short while the girl reappeared with coffee in a silver cup, which she daintily placed on the table, standing a little way from it. From her appearance and way of addressing me previously, I knew she was from a high school or college, and her attitude in tarrying there now was a positive invitation to me to converse. But I could not muster courage to address her; my voice failed and my vocabulary seemed to run dry. I had also a suspicion that we were the targets of a few pairs of eyes peering from behind the ramparts. I could not even bold to look at her straight; I was simply viewing her through the corner of my eye, literally drinking in her beauty with every sip of coffee. I was wondering whether there was some conspiracy in the whole affair or whether it was a case of mistaken identity, when I heard the footsteps of the station-master outside. He came in a hurry and told me that the train was to leave shortly as the ‘all clear’ was sounded at Vizagapatam. “We would have been more glad if you could have spent some more time with us,” he said apologetically, as though he was anticipating my arrival all the time and had been prepared for it. I got up and walked out briskly and was too confused to express my thanks or apologies. From behind I heard the station-master speak about my father, and something else which I could not quite catch. I boarded the train just as it whistled and began to move. I saw from my compartment that the station-master’s family were still watching me with interest. The ‘all clear’ was sounded at Vizagapatam, but it had not yet sounded for me.

With my mind still dazed with this romantic experience, I came home in the full expectation that my untimely arrival would cause a flutter of surprise among the members of my family. But the very first sentence my father uttered on my arrival put the lid on the mystery more tightly. “So you have seen the girl,” he began, “but we shall talk about it afterwards. First have your food, for you must be feeling awfully hungry.” Far from it; I was feeling awfully mystified. Surprises were hitting me hard like bullets. I wondered how my father suddenly developed the clairvoyant vision so as to know all that had happened to me on the way.

While I was slowly finishing my meal, my mother narrated the whole story which unraveled the mystery. The station-master, it would seem, was a distant relation who had seen me previously, though I did not know him. He offered his daughter (by his second wife) in marriage to me, and my father practically fixed up the alliance but formally wanted me to see the girl and ‘approve’. He therefore, wrote to me to alight at the station on my way to Waltair for my examinations, and had informed the station-master accordingly. So they were all under the impression that everything had gone on according to their plan. But the letter my father wrote never reached me, as I had started earlier. This accident was the cause of all my surprises. The ‘all clear’ was really sounded for me the next day when I received my father’s letter redirected from Cocanada.