The Tragic Nature of Miracles
Short Story
All Ravi could smell was feet.
He was lying underneath a bench at Ghatkopar railway station, watching dark ankles flash past. From his view, with an ear pressed up against the dusty concrete, it seemed as though the feet were flowing downward, like a waterfall of flesh.
It was a hot, sticky day, which was nothing new for Mumbai. Many of the working men wore sandals; others were barefoot, relying on their hardened, calloused soles to aide their travel. A few wore covered shoes, which was both a blessing and a curse for the boy. For one, they were easier to spot in the parade of feet across the station, but their scarcity was bad for business.
Ravi’s business was bags. Other people’s bags. Big ones would not do — he needed the smaller ones. How else could he slip away through the crowd in a split second? That’s what Shiva had told him, anyway. He always brought the bags back to Shiva. Shiva would open them, toss aside the worthless junk and find the things that he could sell. The more that could be sold, the more Ravi got fed that night. For an orphan without an education, it was a lesson in simple mathematics. Logic learned through practise and a series of adrenaline rushes.
In the rush hour, Ravi was keeping keen attention on the colour of the feet. One day, he’d taken a backpack that belonged to a large, bewildered-looking white man. Ravi doubted the man would have seen him move on the bag (almost immediately after it was placed down), even if he had been looking straight down, due to the size of his protruding gut. Shiva had been overjoyed with Ravi with that haul. The bag had contained several hundred U.S. dollars, along with some sparkling, heavyset wristwatches. Ravi ate like a king for a month after that; the other bag boys sung his praises, and Shiva even took him to a see a film.
But there was no flash of white flesh on the busy platform. Whistles sounded and the other passengers chatted — to others on the platform, over their phones, or to themselves. The bench he lay under was constantly the recipient of new passengers. Almost as soon as they sat, another train arrived, sweeping them away with it, only to be replaced by another few weary bodies.
It was nearing the end of rush hour when an opportunity finally presented itself.
Space on the bench freed up like magic again, and a larger body sat down, the wooden planks groaning a little in response. A small, black leather bag was placed between the fresh set of legs that arched out onto the ground. The bag remained at rest for a moment, before it was suddenly thrust under the bench, where Ravi lay.
Ravi almost jumped out of fright — he jerked back to avoid being hit in the head. The legs stayed in their spot for a moment longer, but as quickly as they’d come, the person was gone.
Ravi couldn’t believe his luck. As quickly as he could, he grabbed ahold of the bag and rolled out the back of the bench. The newly-seated passengers hardly glanced at him, if they’d even heard him depart.
The bag was surprisingly heavy, despite its diminutive size. Ravi hefted it with a grunt onto a bony shoulder and slipped between the crowd, towards the station steps.
Ravi moved swiftly, ignoring any shouts that may have been projected at him. Under the ticket barriers he slid, and emerged with the rest of the crowd onto a dusty road, lined with stationary cars, motorbikes and tuk-tuks, interspersed with bicycles cutting their own paths.
Turning north-east, Ravi walked quickly, trying to imbue his steps with an aura of purpose (Shiva had told him never to run — that would draw too much attention). He followed the train line, overjoyed at his haul. He had an urge to look inside the bag, before he got back to show Shiva, but resisted it. His mind wandered instead. What could be in the bag? he thought. Maybe there were bundles of notes, like what was in the white man’s bag. Or watches. He imagined that would explain the bag’s heaviness. The excited thoughts quickly bubbled into hopes and wishes. Maybe, he thought, maybe Shiva will take me back to the cinema. Back into that dark room, with the projections of the beautiful people flashing, intertwined in some wondrous story that alway ended well.
It was a happy vision, and little Ravi remained in it as he walked along the train line on that hot, sticky day.
The explosion that came from the bag left a crater two-metres deep. The authorities would later remark on the bomb’s sophistication and power. Confusion swirled, though — a violent group had claimed responsibility for an attack on the Ghatkopar railway station almost as soon as the bomb went off, but this explosion had occurred entirely out of range to be effective.
A few policemen, quick to strike a match with the assembled media, prematurely claimed that the bomber himself had been killed when trying to arm the device, before entering the station.
It was only later, after the CCTV footage had been painstakingly analysed, that they discovered the culprit and the unfortunate bag boy that had unwittingly carried the bomb away from the crowded platform.
Little Ravi, though known as the nameless hero in several gushing media reports, received a state funeral. A tree was also planted in his honour in the crater left by the bomb; it was a gulmahor tree, with leaves of resplendent red.
