Recap: Jayanthan, Mrs. Mangalam etc. are all passengers on a morning train bound for Trichy, their workplace. They encounter Jyoti, a friendly and talkative vendor, at Poongudi station, on the way. Jayanthan’s sarcastic remark about Jyoti’s cooking offended her.

Part 1: Coupling Signals

Chapter 5: Early Bird Delights

The next morning, as Mrs. Mangalam and I began our walk along the platform, Ahmed caught up to us. It felt awkward. Mrs. Mangalam shot me a questioning look, her eyebrows raised high. I shrugged helplessly.

Suddenly, we saw a flash of something shiny. Tucked into Ahmed’s belt was a brand-new Walkman. With a flourish, he adjusted the headphones, wrapping them around his head before plugging the jack into the stereo slot.

“Hey, nice new Walkman, buddy!” I exclaimed, unable to contain my curiosity.

Rajan, puffing on a cigarette nearby, chuckled. “The fox coming to town is bad enough, but to howl on top of it?” His comment was laced with good-natured teasing.

Mrs. Mangalam burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the platform. “Now we know why you were so eager to join our walk,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

Ahmed, feigning hurt, protested, “Ma, no! It’s not showing off, really. It’s just like…” he stammered, searching for the right words.

“Mm hmm, okay, okay,” Mrs. Mangalam conceded with a playful smile. “A new toy. You want to enjoy it. Like a curious child, I understand.”

It was an AIWA Walkman, a treasure Ahmed likely captured it from Burma Bazaar in Trichy, a place known for its smuggled goods from Malaysia and Singapore. I tried it as we commenced our walk. The first listen was pure bliss. Ilayaraja’s melody poured through the headphones, rich and clear. The 3-band equalizer worked its magic, enriching the sound to a whole new level. In that moment, I knew I had to get one myself, if I could save up enough.

When we return to our seats, a surprise awaited me. A steaming idly packet adorned with a single, glittering jasmine bud sat on my seat. “Special idlis,” Jyoti announced, a playful glint in her eyes. “For someone who appreciates good sambar, especially after a bad breakfast yesterday.”

My cheeks felt warm under her gaze. “Thank you,” I stammered, the words tumbling out clumsily. “These look amazing, and with that fancy jasmine on top… I feel special.”

Jyoti chuckled, a melody that danced through the bustling compartment. “Well, someone had to appreciate my culinary skills after yesterday’s disaster,” she winked. “Watery sambar might sound strange, but it lets me offer delicious idly-s at a price everyone can enjoy. Win-win, Isn’t it?”

A playful question mark materialized between my brows. “Does that mean you’re planning to charge me double for this privilege?”

Her laughter erupted, as sunshine streaming through our house’s eastern door. It was a sound that could chase away any monsoon grumpiness, and I couldn’t help but grin. “Oh no, Mr. High Standards,” she teased, tapping my shoulder with mock sternness. “For you, it’s always complimentary watery sambar. Consider it a special discount for early risers with sophisticated taste buds.”

The light tap, though playful, sent a lovable warmth through me, a warmth that lingered long after the semaphore clanged, signaling the train’s departure.

(To be continued)

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