Dawat at Parasuram's

The sun melted like butter over Sherpur, a station hidden so deep in the forest that mapmakers had to guess where to put the dot.

- Samar Anand

Every evening, the same scene repeated itself: one empty platform, one lamp and one man—Parasuram Paswan, station master with a love for cooking.

There wasn't another human soul for miles. Every day, a goods train passed through Sherpur, carrying wheat, rice and pulses that kept the big cities fed. Parasuram's job, as he proudly put it, was “to make sure the belly of India never goes hungry.”

One evening, a tired, dusty man with hair like a bird's nest, panted like an old steam engine, as he reached the platform.

“Are you... Parasuram Paswan?” he said tiredly.

“The one and only,” Parasuram said. “Who are you?”

“Ajay Talwar. I am a polling officer. I’ve been sent here to register your vote for the election.”

Parasuram blinked. “You came here ... just for that? Alone?”

Ajay dropped his bag and collapsed onto a bench. “I didn’t start alone! We were a team of three!”

“Where are they?”

Ajay pointed shakily to the jungle. “Our jeep got a flat tire ten kilometres back and we had to walk. The police constable who was with us, stopped to tie his shoelace, but a monkey stole his shoe! He is hopping on one leg chasing it.”

“And the others?” Parasuram asked, eyes wide.

“My officer ran after the constable. Last I saw, the monkey was winning. I was the only one who kept walking. I am hungry, thirsty and feeling very hot. I deserve a medal or at least a fan.”

Parasuram’s face broke into a big smile. “A fan I can’t give. But dinner, it will be royal!”

Ajay groaned. “I can’t stay for dinner. I must collect your vote and return to the city by tomorrow morning.”