The important thing to remember is you were young once. Words my grandfather was inclined to remind his children with, from time to time; when they were disciplining their own offspring, his grandchildren — me among them, me at the head of them!
My dear mother, I think, took to looking over her shoulder every time before she gave me a disciplinary shout, for fear that granddad would be lurking about somewhere in the vicinity ready to pounce with his words of caution.
Looking back on life one realises there are some incidents one would gladly change if the chance came to do it all over again. I was 16, I recall, when it became necessary to take a train trip from my hometown to the big city of Madras (now Chennai), 450 kilometres away. It was a sporting obligation. That is, it involved sport and I was pretty convinced in those days I would end up playing cricket for India.
Travel by rail was free because dad, a railway man, had access to travel passes for the family. This journey necessitated taking a friend along. It being a day and age when teenagers were perpetually out of pocket, and with me having a brother, it became easy to say to this friend, “Travel with me, be my brother for the journey there and back”. All went well until a travelling ticket inspector on the return trip asked to see our tickets. I showed him dad’s pass. He glanced at it, gave it back then asked my friend for his ticket. “He’s my brother,” I told the inspector, who broke into cackles of laughter.
Things went downhill from there, as I tried valiantly to prove to the inspector that while my father had the fair skin of an Englishman my mother was of Indian origin and therefore that explained why me and my ‘brother’ looked so dissimilar.
Anyhow, long story short, the two of us were made to get off the train at the next junction and find our way home somehow.
My dad — poor man — was punished for allowing his son to misuse important travel documents. His travel passes were cut from three to two per year for two years. Grandfather was nowhere around, mother chewed my head off and dad, characteristically, said nothing, and when he did say something said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, it’ll all be okay soon”.
I was reminded of this recently in Sydney. A young girl of perhaps 15 trying to board the bus is confronted by the sight of a bus ticket inspector standing like a sturdy pillar at the doorway — a rare sighting, I admit, but they do make surprise checks. The girl’s mother, like some of us other passengers, has already flashed her travel document at the driver and made her way into the vehicle.
“My mother’s shown you the concession card,” she says and pushes past the inspector.
“Hang on a sec,” says the inspector, “I’d like to see your mother’s card.”
He calls out to the mother. At the same time it becomes apparent, if one is watching the young girl’s features, that she doesn’t have proper travel documents. No concession card, no ticket. The mother approaches and shows her card. The inspector checks it and says, “Right, this doesn’t entitle you to travel with your daughter as well. It’s just for you. You’ll have to buy a full-fare ticket for your daughter I’m afraid.”
Turns out neither mum nor daughter has any money. Not a cent. They look around helplessly barely for two seconds before several people on the bus — nearly all pensioners themselves travelling on concession fares — offer to buy the girl a ticket.
In the end, the inspector’s heart melts, I think, for he allows the girl on with a severe, final warning. If grandfather were here he’d have advised ‘Mr Inspector’ appropriately. Or perhaps he did have a quiet word in his ear.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
