Trivandrum Mail

2013

 2013.

 “Did you pack the rice?”

 “Yes.”

 “I didn’t buy a bottle of water –”

 “I packed one from home.”

 The train’s blaring horn is loud, interrupting the irritable couple standing on platform one. The young woman closes her mouth, about to ask her husband exactly which bottle he’d used – he has probably put the water in one of their good flasks instead of a disposable plastic bottle, and she does not want to lose said flask on the train. She adjusts her dupatta over her slim shoulders, glances at the time as the train rolls into the station, roof wet from the torrential rain beating down on Kottayam. The clock on the wall of the platform, next to the man selling books on a wooden crate, reads 5:31.

 “It’s late,” her husband mutters, gathering up both their suitcases in his hands, preparing to board the train. He knows she does not like to rush, that she prefers to wait until the train has been stationary for a while – she knows that he does not like to wait while others board before them. Still she feels a prick of annoyance as he tries to find their coach.

 “Shreyas, let the train stop,” she says, knowing it is useless. He walks a few steps ahead as the train slows down. She stands next to their large combined suitcase, feeling an ache in her legs. It had been a rush to leave home, to lock up everything, pack the food, pay the advance to the maid for the week they would be away, cover the bike with the rain cover, close all the windows in the flat, put away her jewellery, and her husband was supposed to come home early, but he didn’t.

 She thinks about her berth on the train, the bedding, and she feels better.

 Her husband turns back, gestures to her.

 “This way.”

 He takes the suitcase, pulling it with one hand, and takes her hand with his free one, their thin wedding rings clinking together as she holds on loosely solely for the purpose that they do not lose each other in the crowd, which is not too large, but large enough to jostle her. They reach the door of the train – her husband lets go of her hand, hoists the suitcase on first, lets her pass, and gets on. They board in silence. Passengers on the Trivandrum Mail have already settled, curtains are drawn and voices are hushed in the cool air of the coach. They find their compartment – they have both the lower berths and nobody else appears to be occupying the upper ones.

 “Maybe they will get on later,” her husband says, looking around at the empty compartment.

 She simply nods and sits down. The train starts moving with a jerk – he stumbles a little, nudging her leg with his, and grabs onto the upper berth to stop himself falling. She ignores this, opening their bag of food to find their water bottle. He’s put the water in their metal flask.

 She opens the cap, has a drink of water, feeling the tiredness increase. Her husband pushes their suitcase under the seat, locks it up with the chain. Then he sits down on the berth facing her. They both stare out of the same rain-streaked window in silence.

 ~