A short version of this was the first write-up, I typed on my mobile phone, lying on the middle berth of the Alleppey Express in January 2018. I have added a few more lines now. It was published in my blog on May 1, 2018.
AMIDST STRANGERS
( A journey to my Achan’s tharavad without him)
Amma and I were packed and ready, waiting for the cab. This trip to Palghat without Achan felt heavy on the heart. We were travelling to his tharavad to do the special rites ceremony at Ivar Madom near his village. Sujith was back in Dubai, and my maternal uncle and cousin would join us at Palakkad later. Perhaps Amma and I should have travelled with them instead of taking this journey. It helped to have people to talk to, so we didn’t dwell on our grief.
Achan was the one who made sure we reached the railway station two hours early, no matter what. It was his thing. So, even though he wasn’t with us this time, we kept the tradition alive and left home well in advance. We reached the station with 90 minutes to spare. The train was already on the platform, but the AC and lights weren’t on yet. Amma and I found a spot on the platform and just sat, taking in the quiet chaos around us: families, vendors, and announcements echoing overhead. It was oddly comforting.
Once we boarded, the coach attendant stepped in and got things going. He deposited bedsheets and blankets on the upper berth. A little later, a tall man arrived with an elderly lady, his mother it seemed, and a little girl, about five years old, trailing behind. They had plenty of luggage and settled into our bay. I couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious; I always get a bit uneasy seeing small kids on overnight trains, fearing a sleepless night. Mostly, I find infants and toddlers neighbouring me during travels or in theatres, which annoys me. When Amma began conversing with them, I stayed aloof but gradually started chatting.
The man was dropping his mother and daughter off at their hometown for the holidays. He was Malayali, born and raised in Kanpur, where his father had served in the Air Force. He spoke fluent Hindi, English, and Malayalam. His daughter, Ruth, was the sweetest, calmest child, a complete relief.
A young couple joined our bay. Ruth’s dad, a friendly man, requested that they swap the upper berth so his daughter could sleep with him in the middle berth, and they happily accepted. There was something easy and unforced about the whole group; we all started talking as if we had known each other for years. Work, life, cities, languages… everything flowed naturally.
As I watched Ruth’s dad fuss over his little girl, a wave of longing washed over me. I missed my Achan. He had always pampered me in his own quiet, wholehearted way. Amma would often recount this one incident that, in her words, summed up just how much he adored me.
I must have been around four years old. The milkman had just delivered fresh milk, and Amma placed the vessel on the table before stepping out to speak with a neighbor. When she returned, the scene horrified her. I was standing on the table, happily tipping the vessel, watching with fascination as the milk spilled over and streamed onto the floor in silky white waves.
What stopped her in her tracks, though, was not just the mess, but the sight of Achan sitting calmly beside me, watching me with a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes. When Amma shrieked in frustration, he simply said, “Look at her… how happy my Molukutty looks.”
Amma couldn’t see the happiness, only the mess. But Achan… he saw me.
That kind of love, that kind of gentle indulgence, I know I’ll never feel it again. There’s a line from a film that comes back to me often: “Grief is just love with nowhere to go – the leftover love that we don’t get to give….”
And in that moment, it felt painfully true.
Dinner was quiet, each person eating their own packed meal. Then, we all started settling in for the night. The men helped with the berths, and we began winding down. Ruth, all tucked in, softly wished us goodnight. But just as sleep was setting in, she realized her mother wasn’t with her and began to cry.
That sinking feeling hit me, and I braced myself for a long, restless night. But to my surprise, Ruth calmed down quickly and didn’t cause any more trouble. She was a little gem.
At dawn, Amma and I were the first to get off the train. We gathered our luggage quietly while the others were still asleep. It had been a peaceful night, with warm conversations and shared silence.
As we stepped off the train and walked away, we glanced back one last time. There was Ruth’s dad, standing at the door of the coach, smiling and waving goodbye. We waved back, knowing well that we might never cross paths again.
We shared stories, laughter, and kindness. But none of us had exchanged names.
That, perhaps, is the beauty of a train journey: someone who shares a brief, beautiful slice of your life with no strings attached. Just strangers, connected by a train ride, a few stories, and a memory that lingers long after the journey ends. Strangers, now part of your story.
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Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Josh Nezon.
