by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 9, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
I wrote this in July 2022 in response to a prompt on The Story Cabinet app and won a cash prize.
A CARDINAL SIN
Parvati sucked her breath and grabbed the doorknob, praying that it would not creak. Twisting it open, she peeped into her parents’ bedroom. The waxing crescent spilled pale light, contouring the supine snoring figures. She closed the door and slinked out of the house with a bag slung on her shoulder.
A faint wind moaned through the trees, and echoes of a howling dog rent the air. Parvati wrapped a shawl tightly around her shoulders and hastened to the usual haunt of their clandestine meetings.
She waited, wringing her hands, and listening to the chatter of cicadas accompanied by a frog’s plaintive melody. The grey clouds fleeted over the moon, cloaking the woods in gloom. Parvati slumped on a rock, peeling a cuticle from her index finger, and watched the fluid smirching her nails. Moisture clung to her eyelids.
In the northern corner of the village, Ilyas pedalled his bicycle furiously, berating himself for the delayed delivery of meat. He required the extra cash to begin a new life with his angel. The strap of his Bata slipper snagged to the cycle pedal and hung out on a limb for its dear life. Ilyas flung both his slippers without pausing his momentum.
Just then, a covey of men huddling on the skirts of the forest pounced onto the path and halted Ilyas. He clutched the brakes. It splintered, the cycle skidded, and Ilyas catapulted to the forest floor. The brambles drew blood, scouring his skin.
“You didn’t find any girls in your community to elope? Misleading our young ones with vacant promises!” The gang leader pulled Ilyas from the ground.
“Did you think we were spineless fellows?”
Ilyas flapped his eyelids. His muted protests fell on deaf ears. The men had passed the verdict without hearing the defendant’s plea.
Parvati’s cousin, to be precise, her fiancé since birth, lobbed the first punch. Blood squirted from the broken nose, and a wail erupted from Ilyas. The cruor mottled his white shirt. Ilyas coiled into a ball, shrinking as a volley of blows and kicks plagued him.
“Hand me the can. This will teach these scoundrels a lesson!” Yelled the stout priest.
“Do we need to do that?” Pleaded the schoolmaster.
“This pig asked for it. Move over, master.”
The priest tipped the can of kerosene over the doomed lover while the cousin peeled the wad of money from Ilyas’s wet pocket. Then, cramming it in his shirt, he lit a cigarette and flicked the match on his rival.
Jubilant over a job well done, the self-proclaimed custodians of sanctity dissolved into the darkness.
When the birds resting on treetops began to stir, Parvati heaved a sigh. The sun began to spread its tentacles, splotching the sky in orange and pink. Acrid fumes crept from the farthest side of the woods.
Carved with grief, Parvati trudged back home, lacerating her mind for reasons. Unable to swallow that those declarations of eternal love were empty promises.
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash – Alexandre Boucey
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 9, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
Fathers and daughters share a special bond. In 2021, when an anthology was seeking short fiction for the ‘Grieving and Healing’ anthology, I wrote this, remembering my Achan, whom I miss. Everyday. He pampered me and never raised his voice. My friends, who once teased his crazy love for me, now reach out to me, saying that they are imitating my father; they have daughters whom they pamper and adore.
SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE.
I see my mother talking to a lady, and I walk across the hall to join the conversation. Children circle the table nearby where a Monopoly board game is in progress. A clamour breaks out, and someone rushes to manage the unruly brats.
While my mother discloses her special recipe, my mind and gaze wander towards the other guests—a motley bunch. Animated conversations whip around me.
A girl in pigtails runs to us. “Mamma, I want water.”
My mother’s recipe captivates her mamma, and the daughter’s plea falls on deaf ears.
I can see a jug of water at arm’s length of the girl, a tween who is capable of picking up the pitcher to drink. But she refuses to quench her thirst and stares at my gesticulating mother. I do not suggest that the girl pick up the water jug. I am wary of youngsters. She may scream, ‘mind your own business’.
I do just that.
The next instant, the girl’s father swoops in like a genie, “Baby, I will get you water.” He finds a glass, tips the jug, and offers it to his daughter. Then twirls his stubby finger on her stray curls and tucks them behind her ears.
Why can’t the girl pour herself a glass of water instead of expecting her parents to do it for her? And the father dashes from across the hall to do her bidding. I chew on my thoughts.
Uncannily, my mom reads my mind, and her lips curl up. Soon, I can see the thing staring at me. My father would have darted to my side to hand me a glass of water and smothered me with his attention, love, and adoration. I would have persisted like that girl in pigtails – Forever Daddy’s Little Princess.
The moisture in my eyes threatens to fall. I miss my Achan. A silent presence in my life, invariably supporting me against all odds.
My mother relentlessly complains that I take after my father. That none of her genetic material has seeped into me.
I am proud to be my father’s daughter.
A plethora of memories unspool – the ritual Achan followed, by waiting at the gate until I returned after work, and how Achan would stay by my bedside if I were unwell, how Achan gulped his resentment when I returned home late after the movie with friends, and the cigarettes Achan smoked when I went through labour. Especially the camaraderie Achan shared with my husband…
I see my husband on his knees listening to our daughter’s babble.
Some things never change.
Fathers and daughters – an incredible bond that never fades. My father lives on in all the fathers of daughters.
Picture Courtesy – Brittani Burns
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 9, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This story was published in the anthology collection ‘Existing Loudly Volume II’. The story combines my experiences of train travel with some everyday scenes at a railway platform, and a touch of fiction. You will find the actual version of this incident in my book Platform Ticket.
SILVER BRILLIANCE
The turbaned man, hunkered on the pavement opposite, was spreading his wares on a plastic sheet. He swished a yellow cloth like an angel waving her wand over the merchandise, forbidding the flecks of dust from listlessly settling on the heart-shaped keychains, multicoloured bead necklaces, or the trendy sunglasses. Asha watched him as she waited for the traffic lights to turn red, allowing her to cross over to the station. She envied him for the ease with which he conversed with his clients. His apparent contentment made her realise that happiness is self-achieved. A gaggle of young girls crowded around the preening vendor, elbowing each other for the knick-knacks.
Ah, the age of innocence. How blessed ignorance is! Asha thought as she passed the girls, still debating over the keychains. Asha bounded the twenty-eight steps leading to the platform, presuming them to symbolise one for every year of her life. The lights turned green, and the blare of the approaching train added to the chaos that engulfed her. She deftly dodged the peddlers who displayed their wares, hollering for business.
“Rs25 a dozen.” Screamed the fruit vendor.
“Fresh coriander and mint leaves! Amma buy a bunch, grind tasty chutney.” The old lady entreated the passers-by.
Beggars splayed their maimed bodies on the stairs, interspersing the vendors, and aspired to tingle the pedestrians’ altruistic behaviour by rattling their bowls.
“Ammmaaa… Saarr… God will shower his blessings on your family. Please drop some coins or currency notes.”
The urchins scratched their heads while nothing escaped the scrutiny of their eyes. They waited for the right opportunity.
A further stretch of 30 yards, Asha glided through the veritable bazaar of fragrances, absorbing strangers’ sweat and perfumes. Humanity failed to prevail as humans hurried unmindful of the hurt elbows or the stray hair that caught on to zippers of bags—each one rushing to outrun the others in the game of life. Asha then descended a few more steps, reached the platform to be swooped into the local train.
Heaving a sigh, she puckered her brows. The ladies compartment reeked of femininity. The glistening midriffs and the stained armpits nauseated her. Asha was pushed, poked, and jostled.
“Ouch! Are you blind? You broke my toe.” Yelled a bespectacled, stout woman.
“As if I intended to step on your toes. Why are you occupying so much space?” Barked a slender young girl.
“Oh! You have such a nasty mouth. I pity the guy who would marry you.”
“Do you have a son? Maybe I can marry him.”
The arguments escalated, and Asha steered clear of the loud-mouthed women and reached the back row. She smiled at the schoolgirl who would alight after a few stations. Rummaging in her bag, Asha picked and inserted the headphones. The melody, mixed with the trundling of the train, calmed her nerves. She closed her eyes and balanced her stance. In a while, the stench of the approaching bracken river broke her exaltation. The schoolgirl’s destination had arrived.
Asha rested her sore back and moaned in relief as she stuffed the headphones and glanced at the varied hues. Sarees, salwar, skirts, and jeans-clad women engaged in multifarious activity. A patter of numerous languages and accents spilled through as the women opened their tiffin boxes. The compartment stewed with diverse cuisines. Appetising aromas pervaded the cabin. From a corner wafted the deliciousness of succulent drumstick sambar and gingelly oil-drenched dosas, and on the other side, the pungency of garlic assailed the senses. Asha wrinkled her nostrils as someone relished dried fish curry. Tastes were approved, and women shared recipes.
Peddlers selling Roses and Jasmine thronged inside, and thankfully, the fragrance masked all the other odours. And soon after, almost every braid adorned a flower.
“Sister, buy a red rose. It will match your dress.” Marketed a dusky beauty.
Asha, though tempted to buy, restrained herself. She quickly estimated how many litres of milk a month could be purchased with the flower money these women splurged on without a care. She shook her head, and the girl’s eyes reflected empathy. The women engaged in discussions from menstruation to childbirth to episodes of quarrels with the mother-in-law, woes of the irresponsible teenagers, and despondency at drunk husbands. The countless conversations depicting the tedium of everyday existence dizzied Asha.
While the sea breeze played with her curls, Asha overheard the girl seated opposite on the phone.
“I couldn’t go to the reception. My parents were worried about how I would reach home so late. I am getting good marriage alliances, and they don’t want the neighbours to gossip or anything.”
The girl grinned at Asha and continued her rants, “I know I am still too young for marriage. It’s more to satisfy the wagging tongues of the many aunts in the family who are disgusted that my parents are letting me work instead of getting me married…. Hello, hello, can’t you hear me? Hello!”
She scratched behind her ears and said to no one in particular, “The line got cut. Poor signal.” An imperceptible smile crossed Asha’s lips, and ripples formed in the folds of her mind. A vision of her condoning aunts who practised speaking in overtones of reproval loomed largely. Last week, Asha had asserted her views and announced in clear terms that she would get married after her sisters completed their education. Being the eldest and the breadwinner in a family of women, she was burdened with responsibilities. Her poor mother trembled when her aunts visited, throwing insinuations.
“Are you married?” The question from the girl on the phone startled Asha.
“No.”
“You seem to be much older than me, yet unmarried. Why do my parents nag me!?”
Asha laughed, although annoyed, “All parents are in a hurry to marry off their daughters. It would be helpful if you could discuss your ambitions with them. They have your best interests at heart.”
Fortunately, the phone buzzed, and she left Asha to her musings.
Asha’s was the penultimate station, and the train was almost empty by then. She glanced around to check if the compartment was deserted. If it were, she would get down and change to the general compartment when the train halted. Asha preferred travelling the short distance to her destination in the general compartment to being alone in the ladies.
Her eyes were greeted by a passenger seated at the farthest corner. Asha shuddered and wasted a split second on the decision while the train dragged ahead. Clutching the bag to her chest, Asha gazed at the fleeting scenery while a sidelong glance registered the tall figure sauntering toward her.
“It is scary to sit alone, isn’t it?” Asked the hoarse voice, perched on the seat opposite, as she adjusted the parrot green sari that draped her body like a second skin.
Asha feigned nonchalance and surreptitiously observed the turmeric-stained face and the big red dot on the forehead.
“If you hadn’t been here, I would have shifted to the other compartment,” Continued the stranger, gesticulating like a dancer and stroking a square jaw.
Although the jingling bangles were mesmerising, Asha picked up her mobile and dialled a friend.
“This section hampers the mobile signal; you cannot make a call.” The familiarity of the stranger irked Asha.
When the train halted midway for an oncoming train, Asha’s countenance turned ashen.
“Don’t worry. The train will move soon. Drink water. You look pale.”
Then the stranger, with outstretched hands, touched Asha’s head, cracked her knuckles on her vermilion forehead, and then sashayed to the exit.
Asha whizzed to the foot over-bridge before the train screeched to a halt.
Asha’s stride faltered, and her eyes widened as she reached the top of the bridge. A day like any other, the regular train, the same platform, yet suddenly nothing was the same. A homeless man seated on the walkway had his hand underneath the tattered cloth covering his lower body. The hand jerked furiously. His eyes met Asha’s; he removed the cloth and flashed at her. His lecherous eyes stripped Asha. Not a squeak ensued from her parched throat. She couldn’t swallow her spit.
“Come, honey, come closer. I bet you haven’t seen anything like this before.” He said, slithering a pale tongue over his lips.
Her stomach was in knots, and her legs felt like jelly. Asha’s hands flailed in the air and clasped the railing. Bile soared inside Asha when a gust of wind delivered the fecund stench from the bedraggled man. She sensed footsteps behind her. The stranger from the train had followed her to the top of the stairs. The repulsion gave way to relief in Asha’s eyes. The stranger took charge of the situation and flung slippers at the homeless man.
“You swine! You filthy swine!”
The man tried to push but was no match for the heavy-set woman. Her single kick left him sprawled sideways.
Asha’s eyes flitted, and she cowered behind the angel.
The saviour screamed, “Help!” The patrolling Railway policeman and a few vendors from the platform rushed towards them, and the policeman apprehended the flasher. The clanging in Asha’s head grew louder. She baulked for a few moments, then followed her saviour to the police station at the platform’s end.
The women waited to register their complaint. Asha offered water to her new friend, Shilpa.
“Thank you. If you hadn’t come up the stairs….”
“Don’t think about that now. Relax.”
“Hmmm. I hope you are not in a hurry. Where do you work?”
“I don’t have a steady job now. Earlier, I worked in a software company. In our family, I was the only one who graduated and found a job. My parents were proud of me until I opted to live according to my terms.”
“Hmmm.” Asha inadvertently adjusted her dress and continued, “My aunts are pressurising me to get married. My working hours are not acceptable to the neighbourhood women. To shut them up, I need to settle down. We are expected to sacrifice our individuality for societal pressures.” Asha wondered at the ease with which she could open up to a stranger.
“If we opt to fight, we are ostracised.”
“Hmmm.”
“I see you every day. You work at the auditor’s firm, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. I have never seen you before today.”
“People do not like to see us. They turn their heads. Even you did not want to talk earlier.” A mischievous smile played on the betel-chewed lips.
“I am very sorry. I am ashamed of my behaviour. You come home; I will share my address. Meet my mother and sisters. They would be happy to meet you.”
Shilpa’s eyes crinkled, “It’s OK. I am used to such behaviour. Your family will not be happy to see me. The neighbourhood aunties would be busy creating stories.”
Asha lowered her eyes.
Soon, they were ushered to meet the officer in charge.
“What is your complaint?”
“Sir, that man misbehaved with her.”
“You stand aside.” The policeman snarled. Turning towards Asha, he asked, “Madam, you tell me, what happened?”
“That man was doing dirty things. He called me closer. Arrest him and put him in jail. Dirty scoundrel!”
“Relax, madam. Did you approach him anytime? Many passengers use the bridge. Why did he choose you?”
Asha crimsoned. “Why would I approach him? I don’t know anything. You beat and make him confess.”
“Madam, you need not teach us how to work. We know. Write your complaint. We will call you as a witness at any time. Will you come?”
Suddenly, the men sprang from their seats and saluted the officer who entered the office. The inquiry pattern shifted like a kaleidoscope, and Asha and Shilpa, who had been squirming just a few seconds ago, easily explained their issue.
The women completed the formalities at the railway police station and stepped out, concealing a sigh.
They bid farewell. Asha hesitated, wondering if she should share phone numbers. Then she checked her watch and rushed away, worrying about the pay cut she would incur for her late arrival.
They parted their ways as strangers again.
Asha scrambled out of the Railway station, and her eyes scanned the dimly lit corridor of the subway. A girl in a school uniform walked ahead, hugging her school bag, and her steps faltered when a group of boys approached, hooting and whistling. Asha paced forward, glaring at the boys. The young girl matched Asha’s strides.
Asha’s lips curled upwards as they emerged into the warmth of the silver brilliance.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 8, 2025 | Passport Pages
In September 2018, I wrote this blog post. I went through a whole gamut of emotions in the preceding months – excitement about travel plans, crashing dreams, and a ray of hope. Posting it in the Passport Pages, as this is a prelude to my upcoming travelogue.
Bucket Lists and Bitter Vegemite.
Everybody has a bucket list. Things to do, places to see, experiences to collect, all before, well, kicking the bucket. Don’t you have one?
If not, here’s a little nudge: grab a diary or your phone and jot down everything that comes to mind. You don’t need to be past 60 or face a health scare to make that list. In fact, the earlier you start, the better. Begin in your teens, add to it over time, and strike things off as you go. That way, you’re not racing against time, you’re travelling with it.
My own list? It’s long. Ambitious. Maybe even unrealistic. But that’s the fun part, I might never actually empty my bucket. And I’m okay with that.
Sujith and I always loved to travel. So, naturally, I asked him once to write down his travel wishlist. Where mine had 25 destinations, his had… just three. “Whattt? Only three?” I asked, surprised. Sujith smiled and said, “I’ll refill the bucket as I go.” Smart guy. True to form, he ticked off all three places. Me? I was thrilled just to strike off one that we had in common.
At the very top of my list was Australia. Watching Travel & Living, getting hooked on MasterChef Australia, and devouring Bill Bryson’s Down Under made Australia my ultimate dream. I was over the moon when we finally planned a vacation there: Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef (I even took swimming lessons for that!), the Gold Coast, Sydney, Melbourne—the whole package.
Hotels booked, flights reserved, and an itinerary prepared (complete with historical notes for each location, thank you very much), with countless hours spent on YouTube scouring details, everything was perfect.
And then, the visas were rejected.
Since we had to provide flight and hotel bookings with the application, we had gone all-in. We were supposed to travel with a cousin and their family from India, and their visas were approved. Sujith, knowing how crushed I’d be, kept the rejection to himself for a bit. When he finally told me, it felt like the air had been sucked out of me.
It wasn’t just the loss of money. It was the loss of a dream. I stopped watching travel shows. I avoided anything that reminded me of vacations. Can you believe I even bought a jar of Vegemite to get “used to the taste” before the trip? It’s still sitting at the back of my kitchen shelf like a bitter souvenir of what never was.
Then came the Eid holidays.
I didn’t even want to suggest a trip. But Sujith knew I needed a break. We decided to explore last-minute options and called a few travel agencies- places where Indians could get a visa on arrival. They all said the same thing: “Fully booked.” Georgia, Baku, and Kenya were the top picks. But no luck. Until a friend gave us his cousin’s contact at Akbar Travels.
We called, without much hope. They said they’d get back to us. We shrugged and decided to chill at home, binge some web series, and let the holiday pass us by.
Then, the unexpected happened.
Sujith called from work, telling me to get ready, we had two seats on the Kenya trip. A last-minute cancellation had opened up. We rushed to the agency, paid immediately, and walked out with our itinerary in hand. It felt surreal. We didn’t tell many people; afraid the jinx might return. Just my mom and Sujith’s brother knew.
But that anxiety still hovered.
Our flight from Dubai to Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi was delayed by 2.5 hours. I was a bundle of nerves. The Kenya Airways Dreamliner wasn’t the most comfortable experience, warm cabin, and even after complaining, the temperature didn’t improve.
Still, I kept my fingers crossed, heart pounding, until I had that visa stamp on my passport.
Finally, at immigration, I offered my brightest smile to the friendly officer and said, “Ahsante Sana” with all the Swahili charm I could muster.
Dreams may crash. But sometimes, they find new wings.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 8, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was written in April 2021 for the April Love prompt, Harness Writing Event, for the Penmancy Write. Read. Support group on FB for budding writers. I experimented with the Frame Narrative/Frame Story here, where a story is nested within a framework story. A fictional story inspired by a train romance I witnessed during one of my train journeys, combined with an anecdote about a friend’s love story.
A Beautiful Life.
I hated the holiday at the farmhouse. If not for the compulsion of my parents, I would have scooted from the godforsaken place long ago. The holiday, aimed to invigorate me, turned out to be a damp squib. I trudged along the narrow mud road as directed by a villager to reach the railway station. Only two trains halted there, and I hoped that I was in time for one.
The desolate platform welcomed me with its patches of light and fetid odour. The graveyard silence was occasionally peppered by the croaks of wearied frogs and noisily chirping cicadas that heralded its existence, interspersed with a distant bleat of a goat from the sloping fields on the other side of the track. I dropped my bag, twisted my hair into a bun, and slumped on the cracked cement bench, over which a slanting lamp post projected rings of yellow light.
Rummaging in my tote, I pulled out the best medicine to forget the mess around me. A sucker for romantic stories, I delved into a novel. The whisper of the pages was disturbed by stirrings near me. A sensual scent of vanilla tickled my nostrils before my eyes fell on a man dressed in faded jeans and a white kurta. Another lost soul in the middle of nowhere! He dumped his bag between us and settled on the far side of the bench. I looked around; there were vacant benches, but he chose to share mine.
“So, you like romance novels?” A teasing lilt interrupted my surreptitious observations.
“Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“I don’t see anyone else around.” He grinned and continued, “But this novel is not as good as the hype it created.”
I closed the book and glared at his audacity. First, he sat on my bench and then criticised my favourite author.
“Storytelling is not an easy task. As if you know a better love story. Why don’t you write a book?”
Irked by his smirk, I opened my book and continued reading, hoping to shut him up—no such luck.
“I can narrate a better love story. Hmm, in fact, maybe two. ”
“Oh really?”
“Try me.”
“OK. Let’s see if your story captures my interest like this book.” I slammed the book and waited.
Crossing his legs, he began his narration…
Krishnan’s four eyes dripped with love as he caressed the tattoo on the wrist of his wife. He recollected the day she got inked. It was on their honeymoon five years ago that she expressed her desire for a tattoo. Coyly batting her eyelids, she mumbled that her strict family had never allowed it. Krishnan immediately consented and strolled with her to a tattoo parlour, goggling at her delight as she thumbed through the tattoo album. Unable to select, she asked him to make the choice. Krishnan wiped his glasses clean and, with the precision of a scientist selecting the best mice for his experiment, selected one that would encapsulate their togetherness. She clasped his hand tightly when the tattoo artist worked magic on her wrist.
Krishnan had never denied her anything. Their union sluggishly tumbled into a rhythm, taking time to understand each other and to plunge into a passionate romance.
“Borinnnggg”, I yawned and checked my wristwatch. The stranger uncrossed his legs, picked a pack of smokes, and offered me.
“I don’t smoke!”
He lit a cigarette, snapped the menthol, and puffed out smoke in circles before resuming his narration.
Krishnan’s reverie broke when a nurse entered the room. Upon seeing the patient asleep, she gestured for him to retrieve the medicines from the pharmacy. Krishnan planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead and ran his fingers on her pixie cut before stepping out. He adored her dark, lustrous hair, but when clumps began to clutter the comb because of the array of medications prescribed, she had reluctantly chopped it. Krishnan had assured his wife that it would grow again once they ended the treatment.
He chose to take the stairs to stretch his legs. A shudder rippled through him as he glanced at a small child wearing a mask walk out of the oncology ward. He peeked into an open room on another floor where a patient leaned on crutches surrounded by men in uniform, clapping in encouragement—a chorus of ‘Come on, AD. You can do it!’ filled the room.
I sat upright, rotating my neck to relieve the cricks, wondering where this story was going. Why did I agree to listen to this nonsense? Have I fallen into the fire from the frying pan? My book beckoned, and I picked it up, but the narrator resumed in a subdued voice.
Anand limped to the table….
“Wait. You were talking about Krishnan. Where did this Anand come from?”
“You are one impatient woman. Let me continue. You will understand.” He threw an exasperated look.
Anand limped to the table. The walking exercise had exhausted him, and he poured the tepid coffee from the flask, which tasted like the one sold by vendors in a railway station. His mind galloped to the day at the railway station years ago when he first fell in love. He had never believed in love at first sight or that it could happen on trains as showcased in movies. But his heart fluttered as she walked gracefully into his compartment behind a pot-bellied man and a stout woman. The retinue halted near his berth, and the bulging belly that strained the buttons brushed Anand’s shoulder as he stuffed a bedroll on the side upper berth. Then, pulling a chain, the man twisted his large frame and his jaw detached, and nostrils flaring, secured a suitcase under seat 16. The stout lady grotesquely bent to tug the lock twice, then scrutinised Anand seated on seat 15.
The couple interrogated the young defence officer. They explained that it was the first time their daughter was travelling alone, and it never hurt to be cautious about her co-traveller. Satisfied with the pedigree and ascertaining that Anand and their daughter’s destination were the same, the parents requested Anand to keep an eye on the young girl. Anand’s heart somersaulted at being granted permission to watch over the demure princess.
The train trundled out of the platform, and the couple bid farewell to their daughter. Anand yearned to wipe the tears that tumbled on Haasini’s ruddy cheeks. He gawked at her like a child yearning for a popsicle in another’s hand as her lips curled and the nose turned red with sniffles. Anand melted, and right then, he knew she would be his, now and forever. It sounded crazy to his mind.
Every single annual holiday, Anand’s family took him to view a prospective bride who would parade in front of his folks. He would squirm, embarrassed, when the girl displayed her singing talent while the proud parents listed her virtues. Anand had chalked in his mind the ideal qualities he sought in his future wife, which did not include singing Carnatic songs!
Anand looked at the most beautiful woman on earth sitting across him. He paused and corrected his thoughts – she was the most beautiful woman after his mother.
The romantic in me, forever, loved trains and love stories. My imagination presented Anand as the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome officer. I folded my legs, sat back, and yanked an orange from my bag. The citrusy notes wafted, and an errant spurt stung my eyes as I hurriedly peeled and gave the storyteller half. Squinting, I waited for him to get back to the narration while he gobbled up the fruit.
The train accelerated, and the warm breeze caressed the officer and the lady. Dabbing her face, Haasini glanced at Anand. But before she could say anything, a middle-aged man from seat no. 10 asked if Haasini wanted to exchange her berth, if she preferred to share space with the ladies.
Anand’s heart thumped with frightening loudness.
He went into contortions of mirth when Haasini refused the offer. The baldie, evidently reluctant to part and anxious to talk, went away suitably snubbed to yell at his wife.
The couple in the side berths wrapped themselves in a cocoon, sharing details about their lives up to that moment. Haasini liked to read, and so did Anand. They spoke volumes about their favourite authors and books. Then the topic shifted to movies, and she informed that she was an ardent fan of actress Madhuri Dixit. Her bedroom walls had posters of the actress. The wafting aroma of food from the compartment reminded them of their forgotten hunger. She opened her tasty home-cooked meal parcel, and he opened his station platform-bought food. Serving him from her pack, they enjoyed their first meal together.
A chubby child from the next bay, smitten by Haasini, decided to claim her attention. Giggling, he occupied her lap and turned villain for some time until his mother pitied the young couple and took the child away. Breathing a sigh of relief, Anand opened a discussion on music. They agreed on some and disagreed on a few. She took a Sony Walkman, played a cassette of her favourite playlist, and offered him the right earpiece. Sitting close with their shoulders touching, they swayed to the train’s movement and the music, humming a duet.
I almost hummed my favourite song. The pale lunar radiance cut through the gliding mist, revealing the temple spire. The faint tinkling of bells trickled in as the narrator cleared his throat and recommenced the story of the blossoming love.
Anand and Haasini’s conversations never ended, and their eyes communicated silently as well, oblivious of the other travellers. He fell in love with the clearly defined dimples on her cheek that surfaced every time she smiled. The way she played with her dark braided hair, the stray curls that danced in the wind, the line of her lips, the kohl-rimmed eyes. Everything about her intoxicated him.
As the sky spouted rain and webs of lightning patterned the sky, she playfully splashed water on him. Eyes burning with excitement, he laced his fingers with hers, and what should be spoken was unuttered, and gazes and smiles decided everything.
When weariness overtook them, unable to keep their eyelids open and with only a few hours left to reach their destination, they collapsed on their berths, wishing the journey would never end.
The train reached their destination, and the couple parted with heavy hearts. Anand hugged his brother and gazed wistfully as Haasini spoke to her sister, glancing in his direction. Anand pulled his brother towards Haasini, and introductions proceeded. With pleasantries exchanged, both went their separate ways….”
The stranger ceased the narration, and I went ballistic, “Is that all? What happened to them? Did Anand find happiness?”
He prolonged my agony as he slowly sipped water and folded the sleeves of his kurta. Checking the time, he continued the saga of Anand and Haasini. I sighed in relief and curled my feet, resting my chin on my knees, admiring the star-studded night sky.
At home, Anand appeared restless like a fish on land, pining over the girl. After an agonizing hour, he informed his family of his decision to marry Haasini and that she possessed all the attributes he desired in a wife. The puzzled brother and his wife failed to make sense to him.
Anand only heard blah… blah… blah.
Anand coerced his brother to accompany him to meet the girl immediately. He had cleverly exchanged phone numbers earlier. The brother, realising his younger brother’s plight and resolution, dialled Haasini’s house for their address.
His brother slapped his palm on his forehead when Anand stopped the scooter midway to buy a Madhuri Dixit poster. On reaching her house, Anand earnestly addressed the girl’s sister and husband, convincing them of his love and eligibility. This took a few hours, but he was a determined man on a mission. His brother argued on his behalf, and everyone reached a mutual understanding.
Anand travelled on the same night’s train back to the capital and met Haasini’s parents. He was nervous about winning their approval. Of course, it was not an easy task, but he was persistent and insistent in removing the obstacles on the path to marrying her. Initially, Haasini’s family treated Anand with disdain, acting as if he were a piece of furniture. The father barked insinuations and concerns about his job in the services and its danger. Determined not to let him get under the skin, Anand ignored the snarky remarks.
Falling prey to his incredible enthusiasm and madness, her parents finally agreed but set a condition that Haasini’s education had to be completed.
Anand and Haasini conversed on the telephone once every week and met once a month under strict supervision. As the lovers counted the days until the wedding, the Kargil War broke out.
Captain Anand Damodar, fondly addressed as AD by his peers, accompanied his platoon to the war zone. Haasini never heard from him again.
I almost fell from the bench, never realised I was holding my breath. The initial reluctance on hearing the story had been replaced by fascination and curiosity. My heartbeat accelerated, but the storyteller continued nonchalantly.
A stray bullet to the spine left Anand incapacitated. He asked his brother to inform Haasini’s family and arrange her wedding elsewhere. Haasini received the devastating news of Anand’s death from her parents.
I was stunned—a pregnant pause. My eyes turned moist as I demanded the narrator, “They never met again, eh? Is Anand alive?”
“Oho, looks like my story has caught your interest.”
“Oh, please complete the story,” I begged.
He smiled and picked up the earlier thread of the story.
Krishnan returned to his wife, who was sitting awake on the hospital bed. He placed the medicines on the table and gently nuzzled their little bundle of joy. He crooned their favourite song, basking in the glow of contentment. The new parents discussed a name for their prince. Haasini looped her hand into his and whispered that they could call him Anand. Krishnan nodded and cuddled little Anand to his bosom.
Haasini felt dreadfully sad and tremendously happy at the same time. She blinked away the tears, watching the two men in her life while her hands caressed the tattoo—Bella Vita– Beautiful life.
The rumbling train brightened the platform, startling us. The storyteller rose, heaved up his baggage.
“Thank God, life gave Haasini another shot at happiness. But I feel sorry for Anand. I could identify with the characters. Thank you for a wonderful story. By the way, I am Natasha.”
“The train hardly stops for a minute. My compartment is in the front. I am Anand.”
The stranger disappeared into the ocean of darkness. I plodded ahead, my head coiling with many questions.
&*&
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Nathan Dumlao
