Memoir: What you seek is seeking you
By: Swetha Pujari
Tags: Journey, Memoir, Journey Of Life, Storytelling, Trains

I boarded the Chennai Express at Kachiguda Railway Station in Hyderabad and settled on the lower berth of a sleeper coach with my two bags neatly tucked underneath. Dad gave an elaborate discourse on not to talk with strangers, only eat the food packed by Mum, and on sleeping early for the fourth time since we started from home.

I was 22, and he still found it hard to believe I could manage a 700km rail travel by myself. I nodded nonchalantly, surveying the platform packed with travelers chatting with families that had come to send them off, porters sullenly carrying suitcases and food vendors peddling their inventory at full tilt.

I must have been on various trips both before and after, but this was the first time I was traveling alone. I was anxious about the prospect of leaving home, but if I showed any of it, I knew it could cost Dad’s sleep. Also, it was not like I was moving away. The company I was joining scheduled twelve weeks’ training at their Chennai branch and my friends were already there. So I tried to keep as disconnected as possible with the moment to neutralize my send-off.

As the engine gurgled and a distant whistle warned us of the departing train from the platform, Dad left me with a warm goodbye hug and beamed at how composed I was being, although inherently, I knew he was putting up his side of the struggle to brave it all.

With the train gaining speed, I plugged in my headphones, scrolled through the playlist, and hit on Alicia Keys. As the music exploded, I sat with my legs folded, looking out of the barred windows.

Photo by Amine Rock Hoovr on Unsplash

I decided to steer clear of any thoughts about home. Instead, I deliberated about the city scenes soon shifting to the countryside, flocks of cattle straying in the lush fields, and kids from the grim households waving animatedly at the passing wheels and how the darkness would envelop my view if I continued to stare at the scampering landscape.

A young man in a wrinkled t-shirt entered the compartment with a casual backpack and lodged himself opposite to me. I could sense him glancing at me as he settled down.

He waved at me until I couldn’t evade him any longer. I nodded, so I didn’t seem arrogant. He must have been in his mid-twenties. He gestured to my earplugs, and when I hesitantly removed them, he inquired if I were bored.

I wasn’t, but he appeared to be. So I asked what if I were.

He said he had a fable to tell. I relished trading stories, which had been Dad’s and my routine when I was growing up. So, I lunged at the possibility. As he started narrating, we were (at least I was) enraptured in the tale of a boy in a faraway land. After about two hours of his painting the picture of a boy pursuing his personal legend, and me listening ever so attentively, we were interrupted when the passengers in the compartment wanted to retire for the night. We could no longer sit with the unfastened middle berth between the lower and upper berth, so we retired to our designated berths in the compartment.

By the time I woke up the next morning, he was gone. But, the incomplete story remained.