Whispered Rebellion | Whispers on the Train 23

Recap: Jayanthan’s train rattled into Poongudi, the stop before Trichy. Every day, Jyoti, a dazzling food vendor, filled his heart with a smile. Yet, their love faced hurdles. Her brother disapproved, and then Jayanthan lost his job, his struggle in migrated place, their dreams dimming. Just when things felt hopeless, Jyoti vanished. Suddenly, Mangalam, a mutual friend, appeared with urgent news…

Part 3: Final whistle

Chapter 23/26: Whispered Rebellion

Poongudi’s transformation was startling. Gone were the snow and rain’s whispers, replaced by an unsettling silence. The once-lush green paddy fields were empty, their crops harvested. Crows, like condemning black-flags, sat on electric poles, surveying the deserted land. The river, once a flowing stream, was dried up, with sunlight bouncing off the pebbles. Only the neem and konnai – the golden shower trees – dared to show any green against the pale-yellow canvas.

We drove to the southern edge of Poongudi, in search of Jyoti’s house. Unlike the bustling center, this was a place apart – a scattering of houses, marooned in a sea of emptied paddy fields, with only a dusty path for company. When the path almost disappeared, we left our car and walked on dried grasses. The ruthless summer had claimed its victims – empty snail shells, millipedes, and the hermit crabs – known as caṅku pūcci-, all testaments to the harshness of the season. This path should be like a green snake during the monsoon, but was now a dusty trail, punctuated by the occasional sprightly erukku – the crown flower- plant, a reminder of the farm’s seasonal slumber.

Ahmed, burdened by the weight of the impending confrontation, wheezed slightly with each step. Rajan chewed on a long trunk of a grass, a nervous habit. Cyclists and moped riders who crossed our path cast curious glances, our presence an anomaly in this desolate landscape. The only soundtrack was the mournful cry of a distant mynah.

Jyoti’s house finally came into view – a humble structure with a tiled roof in the back, fronted by a welcoming extension of woven palmyra leaves. Long palm trunks, secured against the wind, lay stacked on top. Withered creepers – of a once-vigorous bottle gourd plant – sprawled across the palmyra leaves, reaching all the way to the roof. The entrance, sparkling clean from a recent scrubbing with water and cow dung, stood out against the parched backdrop. A meticulously drawn kolam, a geometric pattern made with rice flour, added a touch of vibrancy. A large well, likely the lifeblood of their farming activities, sat at the back.

The sight of the house should have brought relief. This was where Jyoti resided. Yet, a cold dread coiled in my stomach, the air thick with unspoken tension. My legs, heavy with apprehension, mirrored Mr. and Mrs. Keerthivasan’s steps as we approached the rickety wooden door.

Karuna was the first to spot us approaching the house. He paused in mid-brush, his initial surprise morphing into a scowl as he took in the unexpected visitors. His gaze flicked from Mr. Keerthivasan, dressed far too casually for a formal occasion, to Mrs. Mangalam and then to me. Recognition dawned on him slowly, a cold understanding replacing his initial confusion.

“Ah, you again?” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “That little demon! Did she invite you all to ruin the engagement? This isn’t funny, you know! Your little plan isn’t going to work!”

We remained silent, pressing on towards the entrance.

“Seriously? Didn’t you hear a word I said?” Karuna advanced, his voice rising.

“Calm down, brother,” Mr. Keerthivasan said calmly, even though I felt angry inside. “Let’s go inside and talk about this.”

Karuna scoffed. “Talk? About what? Stealing my sister on the day of her engagement?”

Fury surged through me before I could contain it. “Jyoti isn’t property to steal, Karuna!” I exploded. “We’re in love! We want to get married, and you knew that! Don’t act like you don’t!” Declaring our love felt strangely out of place amidst the growing crowd.

My outburst drew an old woman, presumably Jyoti’s grandmother, out of the house. She squinted at us, her hand raised to shield her eyes. The thandatti, the traditional earring, glinted in her elongated earlobe.

“There’s no point in talking if you don’t understand,” Karuna said, his voice laced with threat. “Like last time, if I have to slap you twice and chase you away with your supporters, I will!” He lunged forward, a hand outstretched to grab my shirt.

The grandmother’s voice, tired and aged, cut through the tension. “Karuna, let them in. We need to talk and understand what’s going on.”

Karuna’s eyes, burning with fury, mirrored the fiery red of twin kovāpaḻam, the ripe fruits of the ivy gourd. “Understand?” he spat. “Understand what? They’re here to cause trouble on her engagement day, to humiliate me in front of the groom’s family! Look, if you interrupt again, I’ll step on your neck and …” He wagged his finger at his grandmother, his teeth bared in a silent threat.”

(To be continued)

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z 2024