Recap: Jayanthan, Rajan, Ahmed, and Mrs. Mangalam are all passengers on a morning train bound for Trichy, their workplace. Their train stops for an extended period at Poongudi station every day to allow another train to cross.

Part 1: Coupling Signals

Chapter 3: Comfort in Chaos

The Poongudi station was my familiar pause, a chance to stretch my legs and exchange the rhythmic lull of the passenger train for the melodic chaos of the platform. The breeze from the river, nearby, convinced us to forgive the delay of the Indian railway and its crossing.

Mrs Mangalam used that waiting period to do a walking on the railway platform. I used to accompany her to enjoy the breeze and give ears to my mentor. I used to share the challenges I face while working a temporary job at a small spare parts supplier of BHEL. She used to insist to leverage my diploma and seek better prospects in other cities. Whether I obey or not, she kept me motivated whenever I was down.

That day unfolded with the usual vendors sell their goods in a buzzing voice. The fellow passengers murmured among themselves. The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of the paddy fields and river.

Amidst the quietude, a familiar sight emerged – Jyoti, a burst of sunshine in a sea of grey, her smile cutting through the glooms like a ray of warmth. Unlike the other stall owners hawking their items, she stormed through the carriages, with a basket with freshly steamed idli-s and a jasmine blossom tucked behind her neatly combed and braided hair.

Her presence, as always, chased away the remnants of the morning chill, now accompanied by the soft chirping of sunbirds. Her smile was as warm as the rising sun, and her laughter as sharp as the pennies in her cash box.

Though tempted by her idli-s and its aroma sang a siren song to my grumbling stomach, I usually hold onto my packed breakfast. She greeted me with a mischievous glint in her eyes, her voice dripping with mock disappointment, “Home food today also, huh? If you’re such a mama’s boy, how will us get rich, eh?”. Her voice dripped with playful honey, a stark contrast to the fishhook that followed. She turned to Mrs. Mangalam, “Amma, here you are, cleaning your spectacles again? Winter dryness, my dear, not your bad eyesight!” Her laughter, warm and infectious, filled the air. Then, she moved on to the next carriage, leaving a silence, like the hush that follows a downpour.

(To be continued)

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