…and remember, kid, there is a freight train out there in the yard and it will take you to New Gates, if you are lucky enough to hop on it.
That was years ago.
Ma lay dying.
Dead inside, already.
In the ramshackle tenement on the edge of Glittering City, near the open drain, she waited for fever to subside, while working on paper bags and garlands for the corner shop for a few rupees.
The eldest son had left the one-room shack one wintry evening, never to return to “this hell-hole,” following his father who had abandoned the family years ago for a “young witch that had cast a spell on that bastard,” forcing Ma to raise the three of them in grinding poverty.
She had set hopes on her son but “was betrayed by the men of my cursed family again.”
The toll was heavy.
She worked many jobs—and ultimately to her early death, spitting blood.
Often, night-time, Ma heard the whistle of a train and woke up with a start.
“Why do you get terrified Ma?”
She did not say anything. Big drops glistened on her withered face.
Then, one night, alone, terrified, Ma told her that a freight train comes daily and in case nothing works for Smita, then she should board the train and go to New Gates, hundreds of miles away from this nightmare, once she dies and there is nobody for the child to call her own: “Just run, grab the train!”
“Sure, Ma!” Smita said, eyes brimming. “What does it look like? The New Gates?”
“Remember, dear child, no safe place for a poor eleven-year-old girl. That city is slightly better. One of my friends once went by boarding the freight train and found happiness there.”
Smita nodded, choking.
“New Gates exist,” the friend said. “You have to reach there by undertaking the long, long journey.” Ma said and gently wiped daughter’s tears with her calloused fingers.
“If wolves come after you, once I am gone, you sprint and board the train. It is a free ride.”
“Wolves?” Smita was incredulous. “Here?”
“Wolves that feed on tender skin of unripe maids,” Ma said, eyes flashing helpless rage.
Smita was real frightened.
A world without Ma and full of wild beasts.
“How can I escape their fangs? Jaws?”
“Do not worry! Girls, when chased by bad wolves, turn into gazelles and run with the wind.”
Smita was reassured.
“…and remember you might meet an old Aunt in the freight train strumming guitar and singing a song…to keep company with the lonely, scared females going on a strange journey, alone…”
Ma died that night.
A few days later, wolves arrived on Smita’s doorsteps. Midnight. It was raining hard. They broke open the thin door and pounced upon the child.
To their surprise, the girl-child turned into a gazelle and leapt out of their paws in seconds, as a sliced moon hid behind dark clouds.
She ran swiftly and found the train waiting on the outer tracks, whistling, puffing, as the pack closed in; dark figures with red glowing eyes in the gloom.
As soon as the gazelle dived into an open compartment, the sliding doors shut down with great force and the train started rolling on the tracks with pent-up fury.
The lightning struck.
Everything was flooded in an instant of white light.
The wolves were caught in that terrific bolt, as she could make out through the chinks, howling.
She heaved a sigh of relief and thanked Ma for the helpful tip.
•••
In human form, Smita saw a spectral figure with a guitar, staring at the new passenger with love and compassion.
Smita felt strong maternal love flowing in that dim enclosed space.
The woman began strumming the guitar and singing in a raspy voice, words that immediately connected with the fugitive:
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Please don’t tell what train I’m on
They won’t know what route I’m going
Odd! The way the singer played, upside down; left hand fingers, including thumb!
Music! Pull of gravity.
The woman played and sang in a soulful manner. Each syllable, each word floating as a bright feather, softly touching head and heart; the simple song and that voice, hypnotic.
She, Smita, a runaway child, escaping mauling fangs and jaws, felt rising up in that space, levitating in the air that felt clean and fresh, and becoming a part of light that beamed down from the roof of the carriage of a hurtling train.
A beam that expanded into a column of pure snow-white light coming down from the sky, from a moon that had appeared from some lost place and was pouring down the divine soothing milk on the young recipient.
Smita was caught in the concentric circles of light.
A luminous figure suspended mid-air.
The light penetrated the roof of the carriage and fell in a regular flow. Everything else was dark and moving except the illuminated spot.
The woman sang.
Each word coming straight from a full heart, eyes closed, fingers moving expertly on the guitar.
And entering another heart, the heart of a child.
Smita sat there, her eyes closed; she swayed in trance.
Humming with the senior singer with an angelic face and smile:
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Please don’t tell what train I’m on
They won’t know what route I’m going
Their unequal voices rose again, fused into a single baritone and the lyrics became a powerful anthem, breaking out of the iron body of the old and rusted freight train, this time carrying only two females on a route they hardly cared or bothered about.
The freight train ran very fast, fueled by their words, the energy and synergy generated was too much.
Then, to the surprise of Smita, now crying but still singing at the top of her voice, it began flying off.