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When I was at college I used to spend my summer vacations in Dehra, at my grandmother’s place. I would leave the plains early in May and return late in July. Deoli was a small station about thirty miles from Dehra; it marked the beginning of the heavy jungles of the Indian Terai.

আমি যখন কলেজে ছিলাম তখন আমি গ্রীষ্মের ছুটি দেরাতে আমার দিদার বাড়িতে কাটাতাম। আমি মে মাসের প্রথম দিকে সমতল এলাকা ত্যাগ করতাম এবং জুলাইয়ের শেষের দিকে ফিরতাম। দেওলি ছিল দেরা থেকে প্রায় ত্রিশ মাইল দূরের একটি ছোট স্টেশন; এখান থেকেই ভারতীয় তরাইয়ের ভারী জঙ্গলের সূচনা।

The train would reach Deoli at about five in the morning, when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs and oil-lamps, and the jungle across the railway tracks would just be visible in the faint light of dawn. Deoli had only lone platform, an office for the stationmaster and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor, and a few stray dogs; not much else, because the train stopped there for only ten minutes before rushing on into the forests.

ট্রেনটি ভোর প্রায় পাঁচটায় দেওলিতে পৌঁছাত, যখন স্টেশনটি বৈদ্যুতিক বাল্ব এবং তেল-বাতি দিয়ে আলোকিত থাকত, এবং ভোরের ম্লান আলোয় রেলপথের ওপারের জঙ্গলটি দৃশ্যমান হত। দেওলিতে একটি মাত্র প্ল্যাটফর্ম, একটি স্টেশনমাস্টারের অফিস এবং একটি ওয়েটিং রুম ছিল। প্ল্যাটফর্মটির গর্বের বিষয় ছিল একটি চা স্টল, একটি ফল বিক্রেতা এবং কয়েকটি বেওয়ারিশ  কুকুর ; আর বেশি কিছু ছিল না, কারণ ট্রেনটি জঙ্গলে  যাওয়ার আগে মাত্র দশ মিনিটের জন্য সেখানে থামত।

Why it stopped at Deoli. I don’t know. Nothing ever happened there. Nobody got off the train and nobody got in. There were never any coolies on the platform. But the train would halt there a full ten minutes, and then a bell would sound, the guard would blow his whistle, and presently Deoli would be left behind and forgotten.

কেন এটি দেওলিতে দাঁড়াত। আমি জানি না। সেখানে কখনো কিছুই ঘটেনি। কেউ ট্রেন থেকে নামত না এবং কেউ ট্রেনে উঠত না ৷ প্ল্যাটফর্মে কোনও কুলি ছিল না৷ কিন্তু ট্রেনটি পুরো দশ মিনিট সেখানে দাঁড়াত, এবং তারপরে একটি ঘণ্টা বেজে উঠত, গার্ড তার বাঁশি বাজাত, এবং বর্তমান দেওলিকে পিছনে ফেলে যেত এবং ভুলে যেত।

I used to wonder what happened in Deoli, behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform, and for the place that nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day I would get off the train at Deoli, and spend the day there, just to please the town.

স্টেশনের দেয়ালের আড়ালে দেওলিতে কী ঘটেছিল তা আমি ভাবতাম। আমি সবসময় সেই নিঃসঙ্গ ছোট্ট প্ল্যাটফর্মের জন্য দুঃখ বোধ করতাম, এবং সেই জায়গাটির জন্য যা কেউ দেখতে চায় না। আমি ঠিক করলাম যে একদিন আমি দেওলিতে ট্রেন থেকে নামব, এবং সেখানে দিনটা কাটাব, শুধুমাত্র শহরটাকে খুশি করার জন্য।

I was eighteen, visiting my grandmother, and the night train stopped at Deoli. A girl came down the platform, selling baskets.

আমার বয়স আঠারো, আমার দিদার সাথে দেখা করতে যাচ্ছি, রাতের ট্রেন দেওলিতে থামল। একটি মেয়ে প্ল্যাটফর্মে নেমে এসেছে, ঝুড়ি বিক্রি করছে।

It was a cold morning and the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulders. Her feet were bare and her clothes were old, but she was a young girl, walking gracefully and with dignity.

এটি ছিল একটি শীতের সকাল এবং মেয়েটির কাঁধে একটি শাল ছিল। তার পা খালি ছিল এবং তার জামাকাপড় পুরানো ছিল, কিন্তু সে একটি অল্পবয়সী মেয়ে ছিল, সুন্দরভাবে এবং মর্যাদার সাথে হাঁটছিল।

When she came to my window, she stopped. She saw that I was looking at her intently, but at first she pretended not to notice. She had a pale skin, set off by shiny black hair, and dark, troubled eyes. And then those eyes, searching and eloquent, met mine.

সে যখন আমার জানালার কাছে এল, সে থামল। সে দেখল যে আমি তার দিকে গভীরভাবে তাকিয়ে আছি, কিন্তু প্রথমে সে খেয়াল না করার ভান করল। তার চামড়া ছিল ফ্যাকাশে , চকচকে কালো চুল এবং কালো, অস্থির চোখ। এবং তারপর সেই অনুসন্ধানী ও স্পষ্ট চোখগুলি আমাকে দেখল।

She stood by my window for some time and neither of us said anything. But when she moved on, I found myself leaving my seat and going to the carriage door, and stood waiting on the platform, looking the other way. I walked across to the tea stall. A kettle was boiling over on a small fire, but the owner of the stall was busy serving tea somewhere on the train. The girl followed me behind the stall.

‘Do you want to buy a basket?’ she asked. ‘They are very strong, made of the finest cane …’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want a basket.’

We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time, and she said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want a basket?’

‘All right, give me one,’ I said, and I took the one on top and gave her a rupee, hardly daring to touch her fingers.

As she was about to speak, the guard blew his whistle; she said something, but it was lost in the clanging of the bell and the hissing of the engine. I had to run back to my compartment. The carriage shuddered and jolted forward.

I watched her as the platform slipped away. She was alone on the platform and she did not move, but she was looking at me and smiling. I watched her until the signal- box came in the way, and then the jungle hid the station, but I could still see her standing there alone .

I sat up awake for the rest of the journey. I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl’s face and her dark, smouldering eyes.

But when I reached Dehra the incident became blurred and distant, for there were other things to occupy my mind. It was only when I was making the return journey, two months later, that I remembered the girl.

I was looking out for her as the train drew into the station, and I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her walking up the platform. I sprang off the footboard and waved to her.

When she saw me, she smiled. She was pleased that I remembered her. I was pleased that, she remembered me. We were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old friends.

She did not go down the length of the train selling baskets, but came straight to the tea stall; her dark eyes were suddenly filled with light. We said nothing for some time but we couldn’t have been more eloquent.

I felt the impulse to put her on the train there and then, and take her away with me; I could not bear the thought of having to watch her recede into the distance of Deoli station. I took the baskets from her hand and put them down on the ground. She put out her hand for one of them, but I caught her hand and held it.

‘I have to go to Delhi,’ I said. She nodded.

‘I do not have to go anywhere.’

The guard blew his whistle for the train to leave and how I hated the guard for doing that.

‘I will come again,’ I said. ‘Will you be here?’

She nodded again, and, as she nodded, the bell clanged and the train slid forward. I had to wrench my hand away from the girl and run for the moving train.

This time I did not forget her. She was with me for the remainder of the journey, and for long after. All that year she was a bright, living thing. And when the college term finished I packed in haste and left for Dehra earlier than usual. My grandmother would be pleased at my eagerness to see her.

I was nervous and anxious as the train drew into Deoli, because I was wondering what I should say to the girl and what I should do. I was determined that I wouldn’t stand helplessly before her, hardly able to speak or do anything about my feelings.

The train came to Deoli, and I looked up and down the platform, but I could not see the girl anywhere.

I opened the door and stepped off the footboard. I was deeply disappointed, and overcome by a sense of foreboding. I felt I had to do something, and so I ran up to the station-master and said, ‘Do you know the girl who used to sell baskets here?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said the station-master. ‘And you’d better get on the train if you don’t want to be left behind.’

But I paced up and down the platform, and stared over the railings at the station yard; all I saw was a mango tree and a dusty road leading into the jungle. Where did the road go? The train was moving out of the station, and I had to run up the platform and jump for the door of my compartment. Then, as the train gathered speed and rushed through the forests, I sat brooding in front of the window.

What could I do about finding a girl I had seen only twice, who had hardly spoken to me, and about whom I knew nothing – absolutely nothing – but for whom I felt a tenderness and responsibility that I had never felt before?

My grandmother was not pleased with my visit after all, because I didn’t stay at her place more than a couple of weeks. I felt restless and ill-at-ease. So I took the train back to the plains, meaning to ask further questions of the station-master at Deoli.

But at Deoli there was a new station-master. The previous man had been transferred to another post within the past week. The new man didn’t know anything about the girl who sold baskets. I found the owner of the tea stall, a small, shrivelled-up man, wearing greasy clothes, and asked him if he knew anything about the girl with the baskets.

‘Yes, there was such a girl here, I remember quite well,’ he said.

‘But she has stopped coming now.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What happened to her?’

How should I know?’ said the man. ‘She was nothing to me.’

And once again I had to run for the train. As Deoli platform receded, I decided that one day I would have to break journey there, spend a day in the town, make enquiries, and find the girl who had stolen my heart with nothing but a look from her dark, impatient eyes.

With this thought I consoled myself throughout my last term in college. I went to Dehra again in the summer and when, in the early hours of the morning, the night train drew into Deoli station, I looked up and down the platform for signs of the girl, knowing, I wouldn’t find her but hoping just the same.

Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to break journey at Deoli and spend a day there. (If it was all fiction or a film, I reflected, I would have got down and cleaned up the mystery and reached a suitable ending for the whole thing). I think I was afraid to do this. I was afraid of discovering what really happened to the girl. Perhaps she was no longer in Deoli, perhaps she was married, perhaps she had fallen ill …

In the last few years I have passed through Deoli many times, and I always look out of the carriage window, half expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. I wonder what happens in Deoli, behind the station walls. But I will never break my journey there. It may spoil my game. I prefer to keep hoping and dreaming, and looking out of the window up and down that lonely platform, waiting for the girl with the baskets.

I never break my journey at Deoli, but I pass through as often as I can.

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