“When will you come next, Ammu?” an old man groaned.

“I’ll be here for Onam in September, Acha”.  

“Will you be getting enough leave ..? How long will you be here then..? You’ve to work overtime for it?” Mr. Ramachandran, the Retd. Constable inquired her one after the other.

“Acha... Stop your interrogation. You are not in the Police Department anymore. And... I know where you are arriving at”.

“I will and I have to, mole. You are twenty-seven now. We are living in a very conservative and traditional tharavaadu. No girl in our family should remain unmarried after twenty-four. Why don’t you try to understand?”

“I do understand your concern for me. But... I have a long way to go. I want to be an established journalist cum writer” said Ammu firmly.

“You can write even after your marriage. I too dream of you receiving Sahitya Academy Award one day and your husband cheering up among the audience. Is that a far-fetched dream of mine?” pleaded Mr. Ramachandran.

“Haha. Full of desi flavour, Acha. You must read Virginia Woolf’s ‘A Room of One’s Own’ to understand what I attempt to say”.

As the silly fight between father and daughter went on the train arrived.

‘Train No: 12967 Rishnapur Express from Trivandrum to Rishnapur has arrived on Platform No: 2’ cried the same unknown but familiar voice.

“Ooops... Indian Railways has become punctual these days. Or is that the loco pilot’s skill? When I was working in Thrissur…”

“Achaa... Please. No time to listen to your personal history” yelled Ammu.    

“Yes... Yes…I’ll take your luggage. Head towards S3. Be quick. It stops here only two minutes”.

Both of them heeled towards S3.

“Your seat number is 74. You forgot?” asked Mr. Ramachandran, the affectionate father.

“Achaa... Has ex-constable forgotten that there are only 72 seats in Indian Railways sleeper coach?” mocked Ammu.

“Get into the train first. You may criticize me later!!!” he exhorted.

People overhearing their seat number banter giggled. A few perplexed big heads began abusing the government for not adding 10 more berths in a sleeper coach.

Ammu hurried towards her seat with her luggage. Ramachandran stood at the platform observing his daughter’s last minute rush to find Seat No: 54.

The space under the seats to keep her luggage had already been occupied by her co-passengers. Yet, she pushed her luggage underneath and moved to the window seat to see her Achan.  

A silent farewell between father and daughter. They neither spoke a word nor wept.

The guard whistled. It signalled green. The locopilot changed the gear. The train started moving.

Ammu closed her eyes. While Ramachandran turned about and walked straight without gazing her further. Rishnapur Express gathered speed. 

Ammu bringing back her senses settled in her seat. She immediately pulled out her cell phone from her black handbag and rolled down her contact list to text her father. A river of words flowed from her heart. She wrote:

“Acha... My super-duper friend... I owe you for everything. You are the one who made me to be who I am today. I also know how much you strived hard to bring me up after Amma’s demise. I decided to pick up the pen just because of you. The first story book you presented me is the most prized possession of mine. A life without you is as void as a life without pen and paper. And Achaa... I assure you that I won’t let you down before uncles and aunts. I will be back soon. Mwaah...!”

By the time she strenuously and patiently typed 97 characters and sent to her father, the train arrived at the next station; Mankara.

Ammu asked for a cup of hot tea from the Chhaiwaala standing outside her coach and busily selling tea. She always prefers tea over coffee.

He handed over the tea and Ammu gave an old ten rupee note.  

Chhaiwaala demanded her to give a fresh note. When she said she did not have one, he got furious and began insulting his female customer. It seems the unwritten business principle of ‘customer is the king’ is not applicable to him.

To her surprise, an old lady in the train came to her rescue. She settled the debt.

Ammu thanked her co-passenger and a cordial relationship sprouted between the two.

Her name is Anjali Kochhar, a retired banker and mother of two married men.  She is also an avid reader and blogger. Little did she remember her childhood in Punjab (now in Pakistan). As a child of four, she only recalls the political uprisings and massacres during the partition days. Mrs. Kochhar did not say her stand on ‘ghar wapsi’. Perhaps she had been hammered down by the ugly intention behind it.

Ammu also discovered that Mrs. Kochhar is an atheist. Her revelation of love for the Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasrin shocked Ammu. Perhaps because both of them despise partition. Ammu imagined.  

Spurred by the real life partition stories, Ammu randomly took a book from her bag. She has recently gone for a Book Exhibition at Townhall Thrissur and collected a few.

Ammu wondered seeing the book in her hand. As if by coincidence, it was Khushwant Singh’s Train to Pakistan. A true depiction of partition.

“Freedom is for the educated people who fought for it. We were slaves of the English, now we will be slaves of the educated Indians—or the Pakistanis”.

How true those words are!!! Ammu became loquacious for a while. The misdefined democracy is sometimes under the attack of religious fanaticism. 

For Ammu train journeys in sleeper classes are sweeter than ‘meditation’ classes. The rhythm of wheels and swaying motions of train till the ultimate destination is akin to a stroll through pastures. The faculties of a creative spirit fully work at such occasions. To her chagrin, the usual inconvenience in public transport system came up in full swing. The noisy squabbling of a toddler with its mother restricted her from penning down anything.  

While some of her female co-passengers were seemingly busy talking over phone to their X or Y, Ammu took her phone frequently only to check her Achan’s message.  

To enjoy a travel per se, window seat is like indispensable. Ammu looked around and was delighted to find a vacant window seat in the nearby compartment. A sense of contentment sparkled on her face.   

Occupying the much-coveted window seat and looking through the fully-opened window, Ammu reminisced her childhood days. Her father’s odd and blind belief in occidental education coupled with his love for English literature made her to study in English medium school. Ramachandran was also strict in phonology and flawless spellings. He used to get his restless daughter comic books and science fiction to settle her down. O. Henry’s, Grimm’s, and RK Narayan’s short stories put her to sleep. Newspaper reading was also a must in Nair family. Reading words thus lingered in her forever. 

When her poem ‘Smiling Shadow’ got published in her school magazine, Ramachandran got her a new bicycle. From then on, every publication of her brought her new and classy gifts.

She checked her phone twice or thrice to see if there is any text message from her Achan.

Having disappointed, Ammu continued reading ‘Train to Pakistan’. Sometimes, books are the best companions for solace.  

It’s been 17 hours and 46 minutes on her watch and 70 pages in her book. Dazzled by the profusion of Mother Earth’s splendour, she turned over the page.  A photograph of her mother draped in a blue sari with a black bindi and kumkum on her forehead smiled at her. For not falling into an emotional pit, she checked her phone to see if her Achan has replied. No... He hasn’t replied.

Today, if Ammu has earned the title of the writer, her father owns the full credit. He has been her backbone throughout her career life. “Never let success onto your head and failure into your heart”, Ramachandran would say. His advice brings a self-effacement in her concreting her mission.

Ammu was seasoned enough to continue reading even in the midst of distress. Admiring the visual treat of nature through the unbarred window, she watched the children playing in the meadows. Some kids waved at her. She spotted a distant cloud and moved her face adjacent to the window to view it closer.

Thuddddd…!!!” A small- sharp object hit on her right eye.

“Ammmaaa…”she cried aloud.      

Hearing Ammu’s painful cry all the co-passengers gathered near her seat.

“It’s a stone....” said a young man pointing out a black stone lying on the floor.  

“Pelting stones at moving trains is a sport for some” commented a dark fellow.

Many were abusing the culprit and some charged against Ammu for not shutting down the window.

“Please get a cloth soon and tie her eyes soon…Her eye is bleeding very badly... Can’t you all see it?’ shouted Mrs.Kochhar placing Ammu’s head on her lap and caressing her.

Ammu could listen the sentimental hogwash happening in her name.

Rishnapur Express arrived at the next stop. Ammu was taken to the Railway hospital by the RPF and Mrs. Kochhar. Probably Mrs. Kocchar couldn’t leave behind the budding writer half-way.

After examining Ammu in the ICU, the specialized doctors came out and said to Mrs. Kochhar: “The sharp edge of the stone has directly hit on her cornea. We are sorry... She has completely lost her vision”. 

Endure did Mrs. Kochhar, holding Ammu’s handbag close to her heart. A beep beep sound was being heard from that bag. Mrs. Kochhar opened and took Ammu’s phone outside. It said:

“Ammukkutty.., I have complete faith in you and your dreams. Go ahead my child. I’m with you. Your dream is just a stone’s throw away. Love Achan!!!!”