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He has used all the people he had known, seen or was familiar with. That is why he has stopped going to the market, to the tea shop, to the saloon where he scavenged for characters to write stories - real stories. Instead, Ved Prakash bought a platform ticket today, to check out a new place for situations and characters.

There was no train for almost an hour. He sat on a concrete bench and switched into an observatory mode. He was not interested in many people; just a couple of them would make his creative juices flow. Of late, he had noticed a repetitive strain in his descriptions of human faces and forms. He needed to rectify that soon.

A dog sat curled up near the bench. The fan was whirring slowly. The dog got more air than Ved Prakash because it occupied a better position. He did not mind it. After all, he came after the dog had chosen the spot. The tea stall owner was boiling the kettle and he threw a crumb of rusk biscuit at the dog. It fell close to Ved’s feet. He gently pushed it away. After it woke up, the piece would be noticed. Perhaps the tea stall owner did it every day. Ved’s vision trapped a polio struck beggar, busy counting his earnings. Will he qualify as a character? Ved felt the need to observe him more. After a while, the view changed. The polio-struck beggar was smoking a cigarette, reading a newspaper. Ved became involved. “Why couldn’t I think on my own that a beggar could read a daily? All the big talk of multi-dimensionality is a sham then,” he said to himself. Does the beggar read one every day? Does he pull out one from the bookstall and read or he buys one? He heard an inner urge to walk up and seek answers instead of frothing with curiosity and confusion. Mentally he had lifted himself up from the seat.

Just then a burly man overloaded with baggage came and threw himself with such force that Ved had to first address what was happening beside him. His irritation had not taken the shape of words yet when the stranger beamed a wide smile to vaporize the anger. No sooner did he occupy the seat next to Ved than he started introducing himself, explaining the purpose of his visit this non-descript town: a distant relative had committed suicide. “Going where?” he asked. “Nowhere,” Ved replied. The stranger had a full-throated laugh. Ved noticed a child-like innocence in this senior citizen’s laughter. “Just came,” Ved added. “For bird-watching?“ he asked. “Is it important to reveal that?” Ved shot back. The man was still smiling, not offended that a young man spoke rudely. He fished out a box and offered sweets. “These are very hot. Bought just outside the station. Don’t worry these are not mixed with sedatives. I am not a criminal, I am Moloy Nath,” he laughed again, louder this time. “ you know my wife likes these very much. You know Mitra family here? Very famous. And prosperous.” Ved declined to pick up a single piece though he stretched it in his direction. He was still wondering why the gentleman did not mention any degree or post as a matter of pride. Ved did not provide any answer to his specific query. His attention was broken when the polio beggar stretched his hand in their direction, touching their feet. Ved moved his legs aside, brushing against the skin of the dog whose nap was disturbed. It woke up, looked around, sniffed the aroma of hot jalebis, then smelled the rusk biscuit lying on the floor, and walked away to a slightly distant spot. The stranger offered the beggar the packet of jalebis.

Ved became interested in the gentleman on account of this sudden benevolence: “But you said your wife is fond of these.” “But she has high blood sugar,” he replied, “felt tempted to buy these to make her happy. Health is also important, you see. The change in the character’s thinking was fast. Do people change so quickly or was he an eccentric character? While he was struggling to define the gentleman in the recesses of his mind, the beggar slipped out. Ved finally caught sight of the crippled taking a turn behind the bookstall. He was wondering what would have happened to the jalebis if the beggar had not arrived. Would the stranger alone consume them all? Or throw away? Or carry it for his wife?

There were many passengers on the platform now. But Ved avoided over-indulgence in anything. He was still observing Moloy Nath who was fumbling with the loads he was carrying. The computerized train ticket was visible through his kurta pocket. He got up to ready himself for the train that was announced. As the train moved in, he was all set to board it first. He did not look behind or wave or smile. Ved was surprised that he was pushed out of his memory in so short a time. Is it that easy for all? Ved saw him getting in, making it uncomfortable for others to get in.

Now that he was gone, Ved felt a stab of regret, at not being able to open up in his presence. As he turned his back, he saw an umbrella lying on the bench. The train was inching out of the station; there was no point in running with it to deliver it to Moloy Nath. Something had to be done with the umbrella. It should be of use to a needy person. If deposited with the station master he would use it personally. So Ved kept it at the tea stall, asking the owner to give it to the polio-struck beggar who received Moloy Nath’s kindness. He took it and agreed after examining its condition.

Ved came out of the station walking, enriched with the new experience, eager to reach home and write. On the way back, he was stopped by the barber going home. Ignoring him, he walked past him. Ved had finally found a new fertile ground to sow the seeds of imagination, to pick characters from different worlds and put them on the same platform, in situations of conflict and drama of his own creation. It became a habit to visit it every day, a kind of addiction. He feared the day when the station would bear a deserted look, with no passengers to board the train. Will this ever become real? Will this source dry up like others did? The source never dries, he argued. There is perhaps a limit to what one person can derive from it.

**