My brother runs to the front of the train.He gazes fondlyat the thonthi engine, which willbelch soot as, with its fat stomach,it pants its way over the tracksto my grandma’s home.
My mother counts the luggageas the porter jogs off,his head a pastry towerof boxes, bagsand the rolled-up hold-all.
My skinny legs try to keep pace,with my be-ribboned braidsslapping against my thighs.
My mother counts again,once our bodies are berthedinside the train.
Seven pieces of luggage,eleven coins for the porter.
My brother hogs the window seat,as I stare at a small, bald headthat appears from under a seat,only to be yanked back againby a bangle-laden handfrom the next compartment.
A lady high-heels her way past me,the fingers of her right handeagerly claspinga Daphne du Maurier,bought, perhaps, fromthe Higginbothams boothon the railway platform.
The guard’s whistlepierces the evening air.
A man comes running down the platform,his angavastram slipping off,As he screws the lid back on his koojathat brims with water.He jumps on the train.One sandal slips off his footand drops to the tracks beneath.A pregnant ladyunwraps a fragrant strand of gundu mallibound in banana leavesand tucks it into her hair.
Write as soon as you reach,Take care of yourself,Take care of the baby.Give my regards to your in-laws.Don’t forget the savoriesAnd the sweets,Give them to your husband.Say tata, bye-bye, cheerioTo thatha and patti.Mama, will you get meA mechano set next time?
My brother whoops in delightas a giant keyjumps from a hand on the platformto lodge itselfin the crook of an elbowthat shoots outof the engine driver’s cab.
Having seen us off,the sun climbs into his chariot.Its bejeweled wheels spray paint the skyin dazzling oranges, yellows and reds,as he gallops offwithout a backward glance.
My brother jots impatiently in his railway timetable,annoyance marking every second lostby the locomotive, as it slows downand decides to cruise placidly,rather than thunder onlike a juggernaut.
He drops the bookand starts drumming on the wooden seat,signaling me to follow suit.Tadaktak, Tadaktak, tadaktak, tadaktak,tadaktak, tadaktak, tadaktak, tadaktak,Brother and sister, older and younger,Imperious leader and faithful follower,the thinker, the seer, the philosopher,the naive, drudgery-loving doer,we keep beatto the ceaseless shimmyingof the train.
Dinner time.The mama across from usopens his thooku pathramand piles tamarind riceonto a banana leaf.My mother gives usthair sadam,with the lemon picklegleefully oozing oilinto the thick cream.
Sleep gives me a piggyback ride,as the train races through the night.Arakkonam junction, Renigunta.The train slithers in and outof various stops,and races through othersthat whiz byin a blur of light.People, bags and memorieshop on and offin a ceaseless procession.Curiosity pries open my eyelidsand I spy my brothercraning his neckfrom the top berthto short-sightedlypeer through the windowand – once again –jot franticallyin his railway timetable.
My mother has withstoodthe frenzied onslaught of sleep.I see her glancing at her watchwith the gold strap,which I would try to prise open(so she has told me)with my baby fingers,as a squint-eyed toddlerwith a lazy eye.
Her hair is nestled stillin a chignon,held captive by hairpinsand a net.
Cries of ‘chaya, chaya, chaya,’‘Kapi, kapi, kapi,’pluck me out ofthe cozy hammockof my dreams,and toss me intothe cool airof the dawn.
Food vendors crowd around the train.My mother sips her teaas she watches megazing at a tiny antstruggling to get out of my milk.
My teeth gratefully sinkinto the crispy layersof aama vadaiand my tonguesalivatesat the fragrant sweetnessof the steamed plantain,pazham puzhunginathu.
Some college girlsshare cold idlisseasoned with mustard seedsand sesame oil.
The train crosses a bridge.I toss a cointhrough the windowand see ittwirling with silvery flashes of lighttoward the river below.
Our train finally pullsinto Poongkunnam station.
My mother grabs her handbag.My brother grabs his railway timetable.I grab my sandals.
We peer through the window,our sooty faces scanning the crowd.
We see my aunt,a stray strand of hairstuck to the sandalwood pasteadorning her forehead,umbrella in hand.
