The   Geetanjali Express lurched to a halt. I got up with a jerk and looked out of the window of the three-tier compartment. The all too familiar   cacophony and chaos, common to any railway   station anywhere in the country, greeted me.

          I   asked a hawker selling peanuts, “Which station is this?”

          “Rourkela,” the boy answered.

          I had got my favorite berth - a side berth and that too a lower one. I had started exactly twelve hours ago from Nagpur. It would take me another eight to nine hours to reach my destination - Howrah.  I had appeared for my class nine exam and was going to spend two weeks with my uncle and aunt in Kolkata. 

                   “What is your berth number?”

          I was woken from my reverie by a gruff voice. I looked up. A short, balding man of around fifty was standing blinking at me?

          “Twenty six.”

          The man turned to the woman who was standing behind him.

          “They have given you upper berth. You can request the young fellow to shift upstairs,” he whispered.

          The woman sat on the berth opposite mine and the man soon left after issuing   last minute instructions.

          “Where are you going beta?” asked the woman.

          “Kolkata?”

          “I am going to Kharagpur. To my elder daughter’s house. She was married two years ago and this is my first visit. We stay in Rourkela. The man who spoke to you is my husband. He owns a grocer’s shop - Pankaj   Store.”

          I cursed my luck. The last twenty-four hours had been quite comfortable. The upper berth had been allotted to a young man and the   lower berth had been left at my disposal.   But now this privacy had been destroyed. The woman sitting opposite me looked a compulsive talker and I had the feeling she wouldn’t leave me alone. At the same time I didn’t want to shift up since it would be quite hot and stuffy.

          “Here take some tea,” the woman was now offering me tea in a glass.

          “Its.... okay, no thanks.”

          “Why beta, you don’t take tea?”

          “I do but I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

          “Doesn’t matter. I have a thermos. I’ll pour it back. You quickly brush your teeth and come and we can have tea together.”

           I got up a bit reluctantly and removing my toothbrush and paste from my bag walked up to the washbasin.

          Ten minutes later when I returned the lady handed me   a plate in which there were two aloo paarathas and   lemon pickle.

          “What’s this aunty?”

          “Nothing much beta. I had told my Sudha not to pack anything since by lunch I would reach Sarla’s place. But she had insisted. You share some with me.”

          “But...I...”

          “Come on beta, I am like your mother. One should never say no to one’s mother.”

          Actually the parathas looked quite appetizing and I took the plate.

          “Thanks.  They are delicious,” I said after taking a bite.

          “I know, my Sudha is a good cook. Oh! I forgot. I have not told you about my children. You must be wondering who this Sudha is. I have three daughters: Sarla, Sudha and Sarita. Sarla is the eldest one. I... also had a son.... my youngest child ...he.... he died two years ago...”

          “I ... am sorry,” I mumbled. ”How did it happen? Was he ill?”

            “No, beta. He was a healthy fourteen year old. One day he was coming home from tuition - he was a very good student. His teachers used to say that he would become a very big doctor or engineer or a great scientist. His father had put him in a convent school - English medium. He was the only one in the entire family who was going to a convent. And he could speak English so fluently - I am sure even the English, had they heard him, would have been terribly impressed.” She paused and wiping a tear from her eye, with a crumpled handkerchief, continued, “Those days we were staying in Bhopal. The anti reservation agitation was taking place all over the country. However, Bhopal had till then remained peaceful. That fateful day college students took out a procession protesting against the reservation policy. It was   a peaceful procession when suddenly things went out of control. Shops were damaged and buses were burnt.  The police resorted to lathi charge and then firing. My poor son, who was returning home on his cycle, totally unaware of the situation, was caught in the crossfire. A single bullet fired from the gun of some sightless and heartless policeman went through his heart. He died on the spot.” Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she made no attempt to wipe them.

          I felt really sad for her. I wanted to say something but didn’t know what to. I just sat silently trying to share her grief.

          A little while later she asked  me, “What is your name beta?”

          “Ramendra…Ramendra Kumar. But my friends call me Ramen.”

          “My son’s name was Pankaj. You know Pankaj means a lotus. And he was as beautiful as a lotus. In fact the moment I saw you I was reminded of Pankaj. Like you he too was very good looking. Except he was taller, much taller, fairer and also healthier. He used to look like a film hero. There was a kind of lustre, a sort of brilliance on his face. Something, which you would see on the face of a sage like Swami Vivekananda.” 

          I looked at her, a trifle surprised. I had seen her husband. He could hardly be called good looking by any stretch of imagination. The woman too was quite odd to look at. She had small eyes, a flat, rather broad nose and buckteeth. It was hard to imagine their son being anything but ordinary looking. And yet she was saying that   I reminded her of him.   I had always regarded myself as good looking. I was reasonably tall, very fair, with thick hair, a sharp nose and bright eyes. I was considered handsome by most of my friends and cute by the girl I fancied the most.

          “Do you have a photograph of his?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of my reticence.

          “Of course. I always carry his photo with me.” The woman said and dipping her hand into a dirty gray handbag she took out a post card size color photo and gave it to me.

           I stared at the photo in amazement. Staring back at me was a fourteen-year-old boy. He was skinny, short - he couldn’t have been more than five feet - and   dark. He had inherited his mother’s buckteeth and flat nose and his father’s dark complexion. How could she have called this scrawny   creature handsome, compared him to film star and.....”

          It was then that I  remembered a Telugu saying ‘Even a baby crow, to its mother, appears cute.’

           It was not physical beauty but a mother’s love and adoration for her dead son that had transformed him from an ugly duckling into a glorious swan - at least in her eyes.

          At Kharagpur, before getting down, the woman asked him, “Can you give me a photo of yours?“

          I was about to say no when I remembered I was carrying a couple of passport size photos in my wallet.

          I handed her one.

          “I’ll always keep it with me, Ramen beta. And if you ever happen to come to Rourkela do come and visit us. Our house is on the main road, just above Pankaj   Store.”

          She kissed him on his forehead and got down.

          My mother had left home when I was quite young. I had managed to exorcize whatever memories I had of her.  But I knew, as long as I lived, whenever I would come stumble across the word  ‘mother’, the picture of a middle aged woman with buckteeth and flat nose would come to my mind.