| Lakshmi Suresh | April 2025 | Short Story |
The train was slowing down. I held onto the hand railing and leaned out. I felt the crisp, clean Valluvanadan air fill my lungs. I took a deep breath and caught a faint scent of wet earth. The Ottapalam station signboard came slowly into view. I felt elated. It had been almost a year since I had come home last for the festival of Onam.
The train lurched to a halt, and I stepped onto the dim platform. A couple of co-passengers exited from the next coach. It was a cold morning in July 2009, and the station clock showed 5:00 a.m. The platform was mostly empty except for a few strays snoozing peacefully.
I took my phone and pressed Call on “Amma.”
After one ring, an anxious voice asked, “Hello, did you reach the station?”
“Yes. Hardly any people around, though.”
“I told you not to start yesterday! How will you come now with two heavy bags? There won’t be any autos or taxis on a hartal day. Father’s also not home now; otherwise, I’d have asked him to pick you up. You never listen to me!”
“Amma, please. One of the bags is wheeled. I can manage. Besides, I’m not a kid anymore. It’s just two kilometers, and there’ll be a few people in town. So don’t worry.”
“Please be careful,” she sighed.
“Yes.” I hung up.
I thought of myself as fairly independent. I liked it that way. Working night shifts, I’d walk back home at daybreak, so this seemed trivial—much to my mother’s chagrin.
The town was still in a deep slumber. The streets were amply lit, but almost all the shops were closed, and the roads were deserted. From somewhere afar, Subbulakshmi’s Vishnu Sahasranama softly blended into the air, its notes serving as a soothing balm. Not much had changed in the past year.
Across the street, posters of new Malayalam movies were pasted over old ones. The actors posed in different outfits. I recognized Mohanlal, who gave me a cheeky wink. Another one had a couple wearing sunglasses, grinning. A third poster showed Mammootty sporting horns on his head, his hands raised as if to fly. Squinting my eyes, I tried to read the movie name. It was written in an obscure Malayalam font. After three attempts, I read out, Pattanathil Bhootham—Ghost in the City. I chuckled and trotted along.
A string of Communist Party flags lined the street and fluttered in the breeze. Shivering a bit, I zipped up my sweater. A dog’s howl pierced the night. I stopped for a minute to catch my breath. The bags felt heavier than before, digging into my shoulders as I walked. The empty roads stretched ahead, amplifying the thud in my chest.
A distant clang startled me. I paused. The empty streets now felt eerily desolate. My throat felt dry. What if Amma had been right?
“Do you need help?” a gentle voice enquired from behind.
Startled, I turned around to see a man smiling at me. He looked to be in his thirties—tall and lean—with a kind face hidden behind a thick beard and round spectacles. He wore a mundu, a full-sleeved maroon shirt, and carried a small shoulder bag.
“Umm… no, thank you. I’m fine,” I replied, panting a bit.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. You look like you could use some help. Besides, today is a hartal day—you won’t be getting any autos here.”
“Umm… I don’t know. My place is hardly two kilometers from here…”
“Tell you what—you can give me your bag. I’ll walk in front of you, at arm’s length. Trust me, I won’t attempt to do anything funny.” He smiled.
“Umm, I ca—”
Suddenly, the growling of a group of animals echoed from somewhere nearby.
“Street dogs,” he said, following my gaze.
“So, are you in?” he asked, searching my face.
I heard my Amma’s voice telling me to run away, but there was something about him that seemed genuine, something that seemed trustworthy. Maybe it was the way his eyes were clear—clear and kind—or maybe it was the way he stood, relaxed yet attentive. My gut told me that this was someone I could believe.
“Okay,” I breathed, offering him my suitcase.
He took it and, as promised, walked in front.
“So, where do you stay?” he asked.
“Just at the end of the paddy fields. There’s a road leading up to a Tharavadu.”
“Oh, I know that place,” he said, looking back with a smile. “It’s kind of peculiar since it’s the only house at the end.”
“So, where were you off to on a hartal morning?”
“I was on my way to take tuition. I teach kids studying in grades six to ten.”
“Oh, that’s great. Won’t they wonder where you’ve gone?”
“No. They’ll all be happily snoring now. Usually, I go and wake them up.”
“Wake them up?”
“Yeah. It’s an orphanage near Palat Road. I go there to teach when I can.”
“Oh.”
His words made me pause. I found myself walking a little closer to him, our shoulders almost brushing. The moonlight cast faint, intertwined shadows of us on the ground. My steps felt lighter, and I stole glances at him. There was a faint mark of a dimple on his right cheek. I remembered to nod. We walked in silence for a while.
“Did you always know that you wanted to be a teacher?” I heard myself blurt out.
“Yes. I suppose I always wanted to make some change in the world, however small that change may be. You know, I was that annoying kid who questioned teachers when I didn’t agree with something.”
“Hahaha, really?”
“Oh, yes. But all that rebellion was during my teenage years. Later on, I reflected a lot on what I would love doing, on what would give me a sense of purpose. And that’s when the light bulb moment occurred—teaching! And what better way to initiate that change I talked about before than through teaching children?”
“That’s quite some influencing, though.”
“Hahaha. Oh, come on! No propaganda here. I was just thinking more along the lines of Dead Poets Society, you know? Carpe diem!” He turned back and smiled.
“That’s a lovely movie.” I smiled.
“Of course. And what do you do, Miss, if I may ask?” His voice was mischievous.
“I work as a software engineer in Bangalore,” I sighed. “But I wanted to become an artist.”
“You sound like someone who has lost her will to live.” He laughed.
“Well… to be honest, I am holding onto my will to live every single day. My work sucks. But it pays the bills, and I don’t have to answer to anyone, so…”
“Ah, yes. You are one of the ‘Independence above all’ types, aren’t you?”
“Yup.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Makes complete sense, though. I’m the same. Financial freedom does give you a lot of personal choices. But did you always want to learn computers? Because you do come across as someone who would find fulfillment in the arts.”
“Well… not really. I took engineering because, at the time, everyone else did. I didn’t reflect on it much. Guess my priorities were all fucked u—” I stuttered. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, please, no. By all means, swear away!” He laughed.
“Maybe another time,” I replied, flustered.
“Another time? I’ll be looking forward to it!” He laughed.
I felt my cheeks heat up, and I shook my head.
“But on a serious note,” he continued, “I truly believe that one needs to indulge in passions that one likes—be it art, music, writing, or counseling. Anything that ignites the fire in you is worth pursuing. Just look at history.” He waved his hand. “So many people who’ve changed the world had to push through tough times. You’ve got something special, too. Just believe in it, keep at it, and you’ll find your way.” He looked back and smiled.
“You barely know me.” I looked away, fearing if I met his gaze, he’d see right through me.
“I think I know enough to recognize an oddball when I meet one.”
“An oddball?” I laughed.
“Yup, that’s what you are.” He looked back and winked. “But do think about what I said.”
His charm was enchanting. I hoped he hadn’t seen me blush.
“I will,” I quickly replied.
“Good,” he said, looking ahead, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was smiling.
We had reached a clearing that spread out far and wide. There was just one tarred road lined with trees, and paddy fields on either side. The sky was streaked with soft shades of pink that stretched quietly over the horizon. A few stars dotted its expanse. The only sounds were from crickets and the wheels of the suitcase being dragged on the road. I changed my bag to my left shoulder.
“We’re almost there,” I panted.
All of a sudden, he came to a halt. I stopped a few steps behind him.
“What happened?” I asked.
He bent down and picked up something from the ground. I noticed that we were standing on a road fully laid with flowers from the Gulmohar tree. It stood tall on the side, its branches reaching out to the sky, adorned with a thousand flowers—red and fiery. He straightened up and walked towards me with a small bouquet of Gulmohar flowers.
“Most people say Gulmohar represents love and beauty, but I believe it also symbolizes passion, fire, and a zest for life. I see a great deal of that in you, and I want you to remember that whenever you doubt yourself. Here, this is for you.” He smiled as he held out the flowers.
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“You’re welcome.” He looked away and ruffled his hair.
We continued walking in silence, him ahead of me. My house was hardly a few minutes away, but for some reason, I dreaded the inevitable parting. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted to get to know him. I wanted him to know me. But the words wouldn’t come out. It felt forbidden. Something held me back.
“Well, so, this is you.” He smiled as we reached the gate. He handed me the bag.
“I don’t know how…how to thank…”
“No, don’t bother. It was my pleasure. Plus, you were good company.” He grinned.
“Thanks again… Oh, I’m sorry. I completely forgot. What’s your name?”
“Kishore” He laughed—his ringing laughter.
“Thanks a lot, Kishore. I’m Tara.” I smiled, extending my hand. His hands were really cold.
“Bye then,” I breathed, feeling a slight ache in my chest.
“Kanam” He smiled, looking into my eyes.
I stood there till his silhouette vanished out of sight.
***
I never saw him again. I’d marked the day we met on my calendar: July 6th, 2009. Every time I came home since then, I hoped to bump into him somewhere in town.
I even visited the orphanage on Palat Road, hoping to find him there or at least get his contact information. I remember the day vividly.The building was mustard yellow and dark brown in color. The paint was mostly faded and peeling in places. A banyan tree stood elevated in the compound, with a few children playing around it. I walked in. Barely any light filtered through the windows, so a small bulb was turned on. The office was bathed in dim yellow light. A lady sat at the reception desk, scribbling something in a register. Her hair was tied in a bun, and she wore a maroon sari.
“Hello, madam.”
She looked up from her register, pushed her spectacles up, and looked at me.
“My name is Tara,” I continued. “I came to inquire about someone.”
“Yes?” Her voice was stern.
“His name is Kishore.” I cleared my throat. “He teaches here from sixth to tenth grade.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to remember something.
“He’s about this tall,” I continued, raising my hand slightly above my head. “He wears spectacles and has a beard.”
“Kishore, you said? That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“But he teaches here!”
“I’ve been working here for ten years, mole. I would know a Kishore if he taught here. There’s no one named Kishore here. The convent sisters teach the children.”
I just stood there, unable to make up my mind.
“Maybe he fooled you,” she gazed at me softly.
“No.” I shook my head. “Are you absolutely sure though, madam?”
“Yes, mole,” she nodded, looking solemn.
“I’ll take my leave then. Thank you.”
I stepped outside and sat on the platform under the banyan tree. I closed my eyes. Maybe he fooled you. I bit the inside of my cheek and willed myself not to tear up, not to jump to the worst conclusions. No, he wouldn’t do that. He really wouldn’t. The children screamed, playing a game of tag. I looked ahead. Among them, I noticed a little girl staring at me. I smiled and motioned for her to come to me. She approached.
“What’s your name?” I ruffled her hair.
She held my hand and brought it down. She opened my palm and placed a Gulmohar in it.
“A gift for you,” she giggled. Before I could respond, the bell at the orphanage rang, and she ran away, laughing.
I remembered that I couldn’t move, couldn’t go after her. I remembered that it rained right after—continuously. I remembered walking back home, drenched. I remembered racking my brain to find an answer, eventually concluding that the experience was just a mere coincidence.
***
The seasons came and went. The memory of my encounter with Kishore slowly began to fade, but I kept his words close to my heart. So many things changed since then. My life changed. I changed. I wished to meet him again, maybe somewhere in town. Hopefully, out of the blue, like how we met for the first time. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to ask him how he was doing.
On one such occasion, I had come home for Onam of 2011. My entire family had come down, and the tharavadu buzzed with laughter and merriment. I could hear my aunties laughing in the next room. Probably about who’s going to get married next? I rolled my eyes and continued combing my hair. I wrapped a string of jasmine flowers around my hair and pinned it in place. I took a small pinch of vermillion and pasted it on my forehead as a bindi.
“Where is our artist girl?!” Meena aunty barged into the room.
“Hi, aunty.”
“How are you, mole? Your amma told me everything. How’s the new work?”
“Going well. I’m happy. Can’t complain!” I smiled.
“But still, leaving a corporate job like that? Tsk tsk, they were paying you well, no?”
The other aunties slowly trailed into the room, clad in vibrant silk saris. A few of my cousins followed.
“Well, yes, but I didn’t like it much. I’m much happier now.”
“What art do you do?” Jaya aunty piped up.
“I mostly do portraits. I also teach adults and kids drawing on the side.”
“So, you’re actually a drawing teacher?” Jaya aunty’s voice dropped an octave.
“Yeah. I work on my own time. I’m not answerable to anyone. I’m hosting exhibitions and teaching people art. I couldn’t ask for more.”
“All that is fine, mole. But how will you sustain this? You must be earning only so much!”
“I’ll manage. Thanks,” I gave her a wry smile.
“Tara,” Rithu, my cousin, spoke up, and all heads turned toward her. “We need your expertise. It’s time to put the Pookalam.”
She led me out of the room to the front porch, rubbing soothing circles on my back.
The rest of my cousins stood there, waiting for me. As I looked at them, a gentle warmth spread through me. I held Rithu’s hand.
“We have the flowers,” one of them pointed to a bunch of wrapped newspaper bags on the table.
“What else do we need?” another one asked.
“Hmm, we need a chalk piece and a white thread to draw a circle.”
“On it,” he ran to the next room.
“Here you go,” Rithu handed me a newspaper bunch.
Something caught my eye. I heard myself mumble something about going to the washroom and retreated quickly with the packet.
I could feel my heart pound in my chest. I rushed into my room and bolted the door. Sitting on the bed, I removed the wrapping. All the flowers fell to the floor. My hands shook as I flattened the newspaper. I read the line “Hit-and-run – Primary school teacher killed on the spot.” My throat went dry. I saw his face, that familiar face with that mischievous smile, and felt my heart shatter inside me.
To think that I would never get to meet him again or listen to his voice ached me. I couldn’t even thank him, for he was the sole person responsible for all that I became. Regret washed over me like the first downpour of monsoon. I thought of his smile and the conversation we had. Killed on the spot. I kept a hand on my chest, taking deep breaths. My vision blurred, and I blinked back tears.
Hit-and-run – Primary school teacher killed on the spot, but something else caught my eye. “July 6th 200-“ “July 6th 2007.“ Hands shaking, I looked up. In front of me was a mirror.
A woman in her twenties, clad in a Kasavu sari, stared back, the kohl smudged in her teary eyes, her lips trembling. Her face aghast.
Red hibiscus flowers were strewn across her feet. Or were they Gulmohars? She couldn’t tell. She bent down to pick one.
“Kanam,” his gentle voice rang in her ear.
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Lakshmi is a former corporate employee turned freelancer. She teaches German for a living. She is fascinated by human emotions and seeks more understanding of them through books and movies. When not lost in a book or deep in thought, she’s either sipping chai or resisting the urge to rearrange her bookshelf. She is a graduate of the Bangalore Writers Workshop and lives in Bangalore.
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Feature image by Rohit Tandon via Unsplash
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