The case of the mysterious Laddus

It was the monsoon of 1989, a time when the air was thick with humidity and the skies perpetually pregnant with rain. Arunoday was on a journey from Tatanagar to New Jalpaiguri, nestled deep within West Bengal. Like many travelers of modest means, he opted for the general compartment of an Indian Railways train, prepared for the discomforts of the unreserved class.

Arriving at the Tatanagar railway station early in the afternoon, Arunoday was determined to secure a seat before the crowds swelled. The train, however, was still in the yards, far from the bustling platforms. He decided to take a bold step. Moving towards the railway yards, he boarded the train directly as it was being prepared. Choosing an upper berth in one of the general compartments, he chained his suitcase securely to the nearby handrail—a precaution he had learned from countless tales of theft.

For a while, Arunoday sat alone, watching the daylight filter through the narrow windows, the sounds of distant trains and the smell of wet earth filling the compartment. His solitude was soon interrupted by the arrival of a man with long, flowing hair reminiscent of the Bollywood icon Mithun Chakraborty. The man’s affable demeanor quickly dissolved any initial apprehension, and a lively conversation ensued. Before long, the long-haired man was joined by his friends, a boisterous group who laughed and joked, filling the compartment with an air of camaraderie.

In the spirit of hospitality, the long-haired man produced a box of laddus—golden spheres of sweetness—and offered one to Arunoday. He claimed they were from a wedding feast in Tatanagar, a gift of celebration. Arunoday, wary of their intentions, politely declined. But his refusal was met with insistence from the group, their persuasive smiles carrying an undercurrent of coercion.

Feeling trapped and unsure of their intentions, Arunoday reluctantly accepted a laddu. It was large and fragrant, likely made of besan, its sweetness nearly cloying. As dusk approached and the train remained stationary in the yards, Arunoday felt an unsettling sense of vulnerability. What if refusing to eat it outright angered them? He feared the group might turn violent.

Pretending compliance, he nibbled on a small piece, buying time. Claiming he liked to eat slowly, he excused himself and climbed onto the upper berth where his suitcase was chained. There, he devised a desperate plan. Suspecting the laddu was laced with drugs, he drank an entire liter of water from his bottle, hoping to dilute the effects—a trick he recalled from his chemistry lessons.

Feigning sleep, he clutched the untouched laddu in one hand. The long-haired man, noticing this, demanded he either eat the sweet or return it. Arunoday handed it back, murmuring about his drowsiness, and then lay motionless on his berth, pretending to sleep.

As the train rolled into the platform at Tatanagar Junction, the compartment filled with new passengers. The group of men welcomed them with open arms, sharing tea and stories. The festive mood resumed, and soon, the laddus were being distributed again. Arunoday observed silently, still alert despite a growing sense of fatigue.

The train departed the station, gaining speed as it barreled through the darkness. Laborers filled the compartment, sharing laughter and sweets. The atmosphere was deceptively jovial. Arunoday fought the urge to succumb to drowsiness, his suspicions sharpening his resolve.

An hour later, chaos erupted. Arunoday was jolted awake by a cacophony of shouts and cries. The compartment was plunged into darkness; the lights had been deliberately cut. As the train slowed to approach Asansol Junction, Arunoday glimpsed the horrifying scene under the faint glow of the station lights.

Passengers lay sprawled across their berths, unconscious. Some were stripped down to their undergarments, their concealed money and valuables stolen. Others foamed at the mouth, evidence of potent drugs in the laddus. The gang of men had vanished into the night, leaving behind a scene of devastation.

When the power was restored, the grim reality became clear. Watches, wallets, and bags were gone, stolen from the unsuspecting travelers. Arunoday, however, remained untouched. His suitcase, still chained to the handrail, and his cautious refusal to consume more than a sliver of the laddu had saved him.

As the train resumed its journey, the robbed passengers began to stir, only to realize the extent of their loss. Arunoday sat in silence, shaken but resolute. That day, he vowed never to board a train in the yards again, a hard-learned lesson etched into his memory.

(With thanks to Mr. P. K. P. for sharing this harrowing tale of survival and wit.)