The platform told another story , it had been buried under the weight of solidarity, few street lamps flickered along with some wild wasps clinging around its glass clad, the long casting shadows ghosted around the cracked concrete.
The giant iron ribs of the station roof towered loomed overhead, blackened with a thick blanket of dust and soot, appearing as a desolated skeletal canopy of Stone and timber.
I stood by the edge of that stone flooring that had grew some wilds along with its crevices, my purple silk Skirt seemed to get soaked under that dim light coming from the lamp post
My kohl filled orbs painstakingly darted to those running iron tracks.
The hooting of those night hunters tawny owls from the old banyan tree that stood nearby the arena of the station sliced through the darkness of this night. My breath echoed through the pillars of the platform.
The silence of the station was alive. The whisper of a stray breeze carried the faintest echoes of laughter from a distant compartment, the crackle of dried leaves skittering along the platform. Somewhere in the darkness, an unseen owl hooted, its cry slicing through the thick night.
The huge clock tower beside the tiny ticket counter showed it was 10 :45 and the train was late.
My grip tightened on my cloth bag. I was no stranger to waiting, but tonight the delay stretched taut, as though time itself resisted the urge to wait for them to arrive. The faint, rhythmic clatter of footsteps broke her thoughts. A man in a worn brown coat shuffled past, his face obscured by a scarf, the metallic clink of a chained handbag dangling from his hand. I glanced away quickly, my breath catching, as if some unseen predator had brushed too close.
The distant whistle of an approaching train cut through the dark, a promise of motion amidst stillness. The heavy growl of the engine followed, a low, guttural hum that rose with each passing second.I stepped back, the dim glow of the oncoming headlights illuminating my body for a fleeting moment—my eyes wide, lips pressed tight, a statue carved from fear and resolve.
As the train lumbered into view, its brakes screeching like a cry of protest, the shadows around me seemed to deepen.
The only sounds that reached my ears were the familiar rantings from my childhood, the constant backdrop of my solitary days. Revathi Athai's sharp voice pierced through the cold night as she berated Uncle Rajan for forgetting her Pompa handbag back in Madras. Meanwhile, Swamy and Sethu were half-asleep, sprawled across their father's lap. Uncle Rajan's face, weary and flushed, resembled a burnt potato after enduring the relentless stretch of the journey. All he seemed to long for was a cup of brewed coffee from Patti's hands and Adigal's Kumudhavalli tucked under one arm.
Wrapping my shawl tightly around me, I hurried toward them, my steps quick and sure. Swamy, though weighed down by sleep, recognized me instantly.
"Shubbhu Akka!" he exclaimed, his tiny feet rushing toward me. I scooped him up into my arms as his sleepy head lolled against my shoulder.
That small interaction caught Revathi Athai's attention. She turned toward me, her face a tight mask of irritation.
"At least you followed my advice from last year. Otherwise, I'd still be waiting for you at dawn!" she said, her oblong face twitching in distaste. Without waiting for a reply, she thrust a heavy trolley into my hands and marched forward, dragging Sethu, who was fast asleep. Swamy, nestled in my arms, muttered something about a fight at school under his breath.
Uncle Rajan trudged toward me, his arms laden with luggage, including a tin suitcase—likely filled with Athai's Kanjivaram sarees. His droopy eyes and sluggish movements betrayed his exhaustion. As he reached me, I bent down to touch his feet.
"Kanna, did you come all this way alone? I don't see Mukundam with you," he said, scanning the misty fields around the platform with his large, searching eyes. The thick fog enveloped us, and the rattling of beetles grew louder in the stillness.
"If that's the case," Revathi Athai interjected sharply, "don't expect me to take another step with this heavy load until that old man drags himself here with his broken rekla! My back is already aching from that rickety cart—it feels like my hip bone will crack any moment!"
Her rant was interrupted when Uncle Rajan's lungi, tied loosely from hours of discomfort, suddenly began to slip. Startled, he dropped the tin suitcase, fumbling to adjust his attire.
"Ayyo, Revathi! You'll ruin my dignity one day with all this luggage!" he exclaimed, his face reddening like a ripe tomato.
Revathi Athai, already irritated, snapped back, "Maybe if you tied it properly instead of daydreaming about coffee and that Kumudhavalli of yours, you wouldn't have this problem!"
Swamy, still groggy but amused, giggled at his father's predicament. Uncle Rajan groaned, muttering under his breath as he tightened his lungi and picked up the suitcase.
Peering into my squinting eyes, Revathi Athai's voice crackled like a thunderstorm.
"Shubbhu, where's that old bald man? Doesn't he know it's unsafe for passengers this late? Especially when there's a *beautiful woman* waiting outside the station!" She combed her tangled hair with her hand, flashing a blushy smile. I nearly burst out laughing but managed to suppress it.
"He's close by," I replied, pointing toward Mukundam Periyappa's rekla speeding toward us. "His bull got stubborn midway, but it seems they've found some miraculous energy to escape your rants!" I added, amused. Even the bulls seemed terrified of her loud, commanding voice, their hooves tapping faster on the ground.
Mukundam Periyappa leapt down the moment the cart stopped and began loading the luggage into the rekla.
"Oh, so you finally decided to grace us with your presence," Athai said with a sarcastic drawl. "I thought you were stuck in some muddy patch again like last year. And listen! Don't you dare take the banyan tree road. My new saree will get ruined in those muddy puddles! Take the Rajarajeshwari Amman Temple route—it's cleaner and safer. And hurry! It's too dark already; who knows what thieves might be lurking in the bushes?"
"Amma, that route will take much longer," Mukundam Periyappa protested, his face reflecting hesitation.
"I don't want excuses! Just do as I say. You old men always have something to grumble about!" she retorted, tying her loose hair into a bun.
"Revathi, he's right," Rajan Uncle chimed in, adjusting his lungi. "The temple route might be cleaner, but it's lonely and risky at this hour!"
As they debated, my attention was drawn to a passenger boarding Chelliyan's modern rekla at the other end of the platform. The man wore a black hat, a scarf covering his face, and gloves on his hands. He nodded briefly at Chelliyan before disappearing behind the bamboo thatti at the back of the rekla.
Chelliyan's rekla was unlike the traditional bullock carts that most villagers used. Sleek and modern, it was equipped with a polished canopy and reinforced wheels, gifts from a British cart driver whom Chelliyan had saved from drowning in the Kaveri River. However, this luxury was only reserved for the privileged; no common villager could afford his services.
As the man hurried to board, something fell from his pocket—a watch. I was about to shout, but before I could, Chelliyan whipped his horses, and the cart sped away, vanishing into the thick mist.
My heart began to race for reasons I couldn't understand. I ran to pick up the watch, a heavy, intricately crafted piece with a wooden scent lingering on its leather strap. Its large dial ticked away, the hands pointing to eleven.
"Hey, girl! Are you planning to sleep on the platform tonight?" Athai's voice thundered, jolting me from my thoughts. "Get into the rekla already!"
Without a word, I climbed into Mukundam Periyappa's rekla. Athai quickly secured her spot, placing her luggage next to her. The cart creaked forward, taking the temple route as Athai had insisted.
The night deepened as we entered the shadowy woods, the sound of hooves muffled by the thick mist. My thoughts, however, lingered on the man in Chelliyan's cart and the watch now ticking in my hand. Behind us, the winds seemed to whisper, carrying with them the mysteries of the stranger and his vanished rekla.