THE SILENCE BETWEEN STATIONS
THE SILENCE BETWEEN STATIONS
RAJAN V KOKKURI, ATTOOR
It was my annual vacation once again in Kerala. After arriving in my hometown, I spent a day in my native village. I woke up early in the morning hearing the devotional songs from the nearby temple. I also could listen to the chipping sound of little birds and the sound of small creatures around the greenery of the village house. There was a little drizzling of raindrops, which made my day very enthusiastic too. As a practice that day also, I woke up early and went for my morning walk through the paddy field. Kuttan dropped me behind Mullurkara Railway Station and pointed toward a narrow pathway leading to the platform. After he left, I stood for a moment, taking in the surroundings. Much had changed, yet the place still held the quiet familiarity of my childhood.
The Memu train from Shoranur to Ernakulam was due in half an hour. Instead of waiting, I walked to the nearby temple. Renovation work was underway; the structure looked both new and deeply familiar. I sat down on the concrete bench; my memories went back to my childhood time.
There was a time when visiting this temple was part of my daily routine. I remembered arriving in a white dhoti and shirt, watched proudly by my uncle. Life then was simple—faith, school, and home existed within walking distance.
Our school stood close to the temple, and we often came here after classes. Thoughts of friends—Murali, Sukumaran, and Radhakrishnan—filled my mind. My childhood friendship was very close, and we used to have long times of laughing and playing
My great uncle had named me Rajashekharan, a name that once felt too large for a small boy. On my first day at Mullurkara School, Thankamma Teacher, the headmistress and my mother’s close friend, led me into the staff room with pride. My mother, Devaki Teacher, and Suku’s mother taught there. Their affection shaped not only my education but also my understanding of kindness and discipline.
I studied there until fourth standard, walking behind my mother to school each morning. Some friendships from those years still remain, an unbroken chain. Looking back, I realize how fortunate I have been to carry them through life.
Memories surfaced one after another—Jayan’s father carefully writing my name in elegant ink on examination papers, visits to Kumaran Vaidyar’s shop for herbal medicine, and lunches at Suku’s house. The taste of his grandmother’s fenugreek-scented sambar still lingers in my mind, reminding me that childhood flavors never fade.
After visiting the temple, I returned to the station, bought a ten-rupee ticket, and sat quietly on a bench. A nearby family smiled politely. A young girl stood beside them, absorbed in her mobile phone.
From the platform, I noticed a house that once belonged to my classmate Rema. In fourth standard, we had danced together at a school function. For a moment, it felt as though the old song—“Malini Nadiyil…”—still floated in the air. I remembered my dance teacher, my nervousness, and above all, my joy when my father traveled from Bangalore just to watch me perform. Moments insignificant then feel priceless now.
The train arrived, carrying me back to the present. The same family boarded my compartment. Soon it filled with workers and students heading toward Thrissur.
Then I noticed something unsettling. The young girl sat near the open doorway of the moving train, one foot stretched dangerously outside while her eyes remained fixed on her phone. No one seemed willing to intervene. I looked at the woman beside me, hoping she might warn the girl, but her helpless expression mirrored my hesitation.
I wanted to speak. Yet doubt held me back. Would my concern be misunderstood?
Years ago, I had written to the minister of state, Indian Railways, requesting better passenger facilities, believing citizens must participate in public welfare. Now, faced with a simple act of responsibility, I remained silent.
Has society changed so much that concern itself feels risky?
The train left the Thrissur main railway station. I have thought very soon my required place to get down at Puthukkad Railway Station should be reached. I was looking around for any known people from my village. Suddenly I noticed the girl from my railway station was sitting at the entrance of the train bogie and watching some music reel on the mobile. She was not holding anything. I thought there was a chance of the girl slipping down in case there was a major jerk of the train. There is a chance the rush of people in the bogie may mistake pushing her out of the bogie. The girl still sat unaware of the danger ahead. I stepped down from the opposite side, silently praying nothing tragic would happen.
THE END.
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