It was the late noctournal hours when I found myself being drawn by a rekla pulled by Mukundam periyappa, only to be stopped at the Pollampallai's almost forgotten railway station, though once built to act as a mediator that directly connects it to the Madurai, , Mukundam periyappa popularly known as the tireless rekla puller was rattling both of us through the rusty lanes of a darkened village shrouded in the stillness, The only sound which passed through the eardrums of my lobe were the dreary mutterings of Mukundam periyappa and the gentle hums of those bright yellow fireflies , queued up along with those flickering distant lanterns lighting the streets of Pollamipallai like a watchful weary soul who will punish those whoever dared to broke the night's melancholy, Mukundam periyappa who lives by pulling Rekla for villagers or otherwise one can find him toiling in the coffee plantation, he was a man with absolute values , whose first priority was to provide bread for his family everyday, whipping on his humpy bulls made them tap their iron feet with more harshness on the cracky earth beneath them , Meanwhile hardly any lantern came to the sight but the dim glow of our own lantern made our rekla appeared as a fire ball rolling into the pebbled street , while robbing away the enchanting fragrance of lady of the night, The misty breeze has been chiller than usual, bringing lives to those long buried memories, back to my first encounter with Madhvan, Those memories are still vivid as the water of Kaveri, I could still feel those goosebumps raising the hairs of my back, When I first time visited Iyenger's Villa along with my Pattan, working as accountant for his Grandfather who used to be a magistrate and then for his father, Who again holds the same designation, his family was an epitome of pompous grandeur mixed with height of traditional values, goddess of wealth had always blessed them with luxuries and riches , hierarchically connected with law and government , therefore their thoughts come as the reflection of both old school and westernized culture , his father has a great amication with the British viceroys and officers who are the frequent visitors along with their ladies.
The Iyengers were a family of long-standing grandeur, their lives a tapestry woven with balls, grand poojas, and an air of cultivated prestige. Among his siblings, Madhvan shone like a favored star in his father's stern gaze, a man more disposed to pride than affection. Shekharan, the younger brother, was off in Madurai studying the mechanics of the modern world, while Madhumita, a delicate bloom of youth, pursued Political Science with a vigor that often led her to wander in the company of her college peers. Educated they were, beyond the reach of many in their quiet village. Yet, I was always an outsider to their fraternal ties—Shekharan had left for the city at fifteen, and Madhumita was a creature of fleeting moments and busy friendships.
It was last year, when my grandfather relinquished his post as their accountant, that I found myself visiting their villa once more. The great house stood timeless, like a sentinel of the Iyenger name, its walls heavy with ancestry. Mr. Chidambaram Iyenger, the patriarch, was a man of solid frame and sterner spirit, his gaze carrying the weight of unbending morals. I, for my part, could only nod when in his presence, for some ancient fear seemed to rise from the ground and clutch at me whenever I faced him.
His wife, BhagyaLakshmi Athai, was a contrast, though no less formidable—a woman of exacting taste and measured words. She moved with ease between the gilded halls of the Royal Women's Club of Madras and the earthy reality of the village. In her jungle hunts, clad in tailored suits beside her British friends, or in the quiet dignity of her Kanjivaram sarees, she embodied a strange duality, balancing the modern with the ancestral. Yet, despite her worldly airs, she remained tethered to the old villa, a relic they would never forsake, for it carried the essence of who they were.
Madhvan, in contrast to his lofty lineage, was ever the friendly and jovial soul. The villagers held him in high regard, for despite being the son of a magistrate, he carried himself with a humility rarely seen in men of such station. He honored the customs of the land and seemed to feel the burdens of the villagers as though they were his own. Often, without fanfare or acknowledgment, he would slip his ample pocket money to struggling vendors and farmers, a quiet benefactor in their midst.
Though he moved easily among the aristocratic sons of his English medium school—children of royals, high-ranking officials of the British government, and wealthy businessmen—he found greater joy among simpler company. Leaving behind the airs and intrigues of his privileged peers, he played with us: Meenu, Kumaran, Vishwanathan, and me. In those carefree hours, the barriers of class and birth dissolved, and Madhvan became just another boy in the dusty playgrounds of our village, his laughter as unrestrained as ours.
There were times when Madhvan could be found working in the fields alongside Kumaran, his hands muddied and his laughter blending with the rustle of the crops, as though he were no different from the farmer's son. Kumaran's father, a simple man of the soil, often marveled at the magistrate's boy who stooped to toil among them. But the day came when Madhvan was to leave for London, and the village, bound by affection and gratitude, turned out in great numbers to bid him farewell.
Under the full glow of the pournami moon, its light spilling like liquid silver over the railway station, a crowd of villagers gathered, their hearts heavy but their spirits eager to show their love. Madhvan's father, ever the stern and prideful figure, dismissed them as opportunists angling for his son's charity. What he didn't know was that Madhvan had long been their Robin Hood, giving quietly, selflessly, and asking for nothing in return. That night was their humble attempt to repay him, their gratitude shining as brightly as the moon that bathed his departure in an otherworldly glow.
I, too, was there, though unseen. I had stolen away from home, hiding in the shadow of my pattan's rekla while Patti slept unaware. The sight of the train taking him away broke something within me. The days that followed were a blur of despair. Food turned to ash on my tongue, and sleep abandoned me, replaced by nights of weeping into a pillow stained with the black smudges of my kohl. Only Pattan knew the truth—how much I longed for the familiar scent of wood and musk that clung to Madhvan, and how his absence hollowed out my days. My grief spiraled into sickness, and a fever gripped me, chaining me to bed for fifteen endless days, each moment marked by an ache deeper than mere illness.
I had been waiting for this moment since that unforgettable day, the day his absence carved a hollow in my life. My mind was adrift in his memories when the sudden jolt of the rekla halting brought me sharply back to the present.
"What happened, Periyappa? Did something get stuck in the wheels?" I asked, my voice tinged with impatience as my wristwatch ticked away. Barely five minutes remained until the train was due to arrive.
"Nothing much, Shubbhu. One of the bullocks seems dizzy," Mukundam Periyappa replied, hopping down to inspect the brown bullock with its long, majestic horns. The poor creature stood swaying, its head bobbing aimlessly, scratching the earth beneath its hooves as though lost in its own struggle.
"I think it's just tired from the day's labor. Never mind, Periyappa. I'll walk the rest of the way; the station can't be far. They must have arrived by now," I said, snatching the lantern that rested beside me in the rekla.
"No, Shubbhu! It's too dangerous to wander about at this hour," he protested, his concern unmistakable as he crouched by the bullock, trying to steady its wobbling form. "Just give me a moment. I'll have it fixed soon, and we'll be on our way!"
But already half an hour had slipped by, and I knew the fiery nature of Revathi Athai all too well. She would surely make a mountain out of this molehill, her sharp tongue delivering barbs that would sting long after her tears dried.
"Periyappa, you know how Athai gets! Last time, we were barely two minutes late, and she taunted me the whole day. I can't endure another tirade. I'll go on my own, and if the rekla is ready, you can follow me to the station."
He shook his head, ready to protest further, but I was resolute. Wrapping myself tightly in my black woolen ponnadai, I stepped into the cold darkness. The night was alive with eerie sounds—howls drifting from unseen bushes and whispers of leaves rustling in the faint wind. The tinkling of my anklets was the only companion in the thick silence, the light from my wooden lantern barely carving a path through the gloom. My lips trembled from the biting cold, chapped and raw, but I pressed on, determined.