Toil and Turmoil | Whispers on the Train 20

Recap: Every day, Jayanthan’s train rumbled into Poongudi, gateway to Trichy. Jyoti, a vibrant food vendor, stole his heart with each stop. But love faced challenges – her brother, his job loss – dimming their hopeful spark.

Part 3: Final whistle

Chapter 20/26: Toil and Turmoil

The cities are teemed by worms, plunge against each other. These ancient creatures toss and turn endlessly, their bodies gleaming faintly in the dark light that reaches them. They feed on the earth, leaving behind waste in the same soil. Their constant movement, a rhythmic stretch and shrink, defines their existence in their bottomless and lightless ‘Patala loka‘, the underworld. But there is constant churn of activity ornamented by the fermented odour.

The city turned me into one of those worms. Everyone seemed so hurried. The woman with the bright scarf practically flew by. Even the man with the vibhuti, the religious mark, on his forehead hurried off with his lunchbox before dawn.

Days and weeks bled into one another, each a blur of striving and struggle. The relentless pursuit of stable employment consumed me, leaving little room for the stolen moments and shared dreams that once nourished the fragile bloom of my love for Jyoti.

The job barely covered my own bills. Every little bit of feedback, even constructive criticism, felt like hitting me with ton of bricks. It made me wonder, am I just no good at anything? Everyone around me seemed so focused, rushing everywhere. Were they all happy, or were they just better at hiding their struggles? Sometimes, the thought of escaping back home, of sleeping under the stars on the terrace of my home, felt like the only escape.

Stepping outside our comfort zone creates a battle within. Rajo Guna, the active force pushed me to overcome challenges, yet confronted by Tamo Guna, the inertial force, whispered doubts and made me want to retreat. I reached an equilibrium point. I decided to give it my all, then trust the universe to handle the rest.

Every week, I called Mrs. Mangalam for updates on Jyoti. Her voice, though reassuring, held a forced cheer that couldn’t hide the underlying worry. She’d always say Jyoti was doing well and that I should focus on finding a good job, but I knew better.

This weekend’s call was different. I confessed my longing for Jyoti and expressed a desire to visit her, even if it meant taking a day off. She assured me she’d call if that became necessary. But her voice then shifted. She asked a question that hung heavy in the air: “Do you earn enough to rent a place and support both of you?” Silence filled the gap between us. The unspoken question lingered – was my dream of a future with Jyoti even a possibility?

Finding another better job felt like climbing a greased pole in Mariamman festival. Opportunities were scarce. My lack of connections made it even harder. And even when I landed interviews, I fumbled through them, unable to effectively showcase my skills.

Jyoti, once, pleaded, ‘Come, give me your hand, before I drown!’ But how could I offer solace when I was drowning myself? The weight of these unanswered questions and the relentless struggle of each passing day pressed down on me with a suffocating intensity.

The old phone receiver in that STD booth, silent witness to countless struggles, seemed to absorb my cries. A crackle, then a gruff voice: ‘You’re not alone,’ it scratched. ‘I hear stories like yours all the time.’ In that worn instrument, a beacon of empathy flickered, offering a thin line of comfort in the city’s suffocating embrace.

(To be continued)

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