Dodging through the animated crowd, I make my way to the front of the ticket counter. The clerk's puzzled look only adds to the charm of the moment. With the ticket in hand, I rush to catch the train, barely noticing a fellow traveler who tries to catch my attention. In my haste, I smile politely and move on. "No time for chit-chat," I think to myself, "Alappuzha awaits."
After I settle into my seat, the train humming beneath me, I examine my ticket. Aluva, it reads. Not Alappuzha. A mix-up. A sinking feeling washes over me, and I wonder about the stranger at the station. Could he have known? Tried to warn me?
Every person we meet carries a key, offering stories or lessons to smooth the passage ahead. Sometimes, accepting their gift, we unlock new perspectives, illuminating the road we traverse. Yet, there is merit in leaving the key unturned, allowing the unforeseen route to redirect our journeys flow. As the train carries me further astray, I gaze at the passing scenes as frames speed past. Each a fleeting opportunity to focus on the world around me. This trip to Aluva, unplanned and uncharted, now holds a different kind of adventure.
The train pulls away, leaving me behind at Aluva station, and the reality of my predicament sinks in with the fading echo of the engine's whistle. Still clutching the useless ticket, I stare at an advertisement for a handbag boutique in Alappuzha, erected here as if to mock my oversight. A simple plan had formed in my mind: return to Kochi and rectify my error. But as I slide my card into the ATM positioned in the corner of the concourse, that plan is instantly crushed under the weight of the ATM's rejection. The screen flashes, and my heart sinks as the expected shuffle of notes gives way to a blunt denial. My card, rejected. A panic, a cold rebuff to my already fraying nerves, prickles at the edges of my composure.
With a tight chest, I make my way to a sitting area, my mind a whirlwind of anxiety and calculations. People flow around me, a river of commuters each on their own journeys, none privy to the sense of isolation that clings to me. I am an island in their midst, caught in the throes of a silent crisis. The idea had been straightforward: a simple withdrawal, another ticket and I'd be back on track. Now, seated on the hard plastic bench that seemed to amplify the turmoil within, I feel the weight of every glance from passersby, each one a reminder of my vulnerable state. The worry gnaws at me, a relentless tide, as despair whispered through the lively human mosaic of the station. What is my next move? How does one navigate when every direction points toward uncertainty?
Amidst the relentless hum of Aluva station, I find myself anchored to this bench in the waiting area, my gaze lingers on a cluster of flowers nestled next to a pillar. I reach out to feel the petals and leaves. They're like the ones back in Kalumburu, and their vibrant burst amidst the grey concrete evokes a pang of nostalgia. Home - with its red-dust roads and wide-open skies, is a world away. A photo of Tili on my phone catches my eye; her grin a stark contrast to the knot of worry tightening in my stomach. Her image, usually a source of comfort, now amplifies the distance between us, highlighting my clinging solitude despite the stream of humanity moving around me.
Caught in these relentless currents it is a sobering reminder of how alone one can feel even in a crowd. It's as if the bustling throng of passengers accentuate the emptiness, a void Tili's absence has magnified. Her laughter seems to echo in the recesses of my mind. I can almost feel the warmth of her presence, another bittersweet reminder of home. The sense of being so far removed from familiarity, from the safety of what I know, weighs heavily on me.
My fingers tremble around the ticket, which feels like a tether to an unknown world I'm only beginning to navigate. I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs, grounding myself in the moment. The world around me sharpens into focus — the station, the people, the path that lies ahead. The worry, ever-present, now feels like a quieter companion, a part of the journey rather than its defining feature.
I become aware of the patter of raindrops against the windowpanes, a soothing rhythm that had faded into the background of my spiralling thoughts. As the rain gently tapers off and the clouds part to reveal glimmers of sunlight, a similarly warm voice sounds behind me, asking, "Trouble with your vision or trouble with the journey?"
A man in a white coat had shuffled over from a modest booth tucked into the corner of the bustling station. The pop-up clinic, bordered by folding tables draped in crisp white sheets, is crammed with medical equipment and eye charts. Vivid yellow and royal blue banners bearing the Lion's Club insignia flutter overhead. A simple cardboard sign with "World Sight Day" printed in saffron yellow hangs beside the booth. Inside, an exam chair is surrounded by various vision testing machines and trays of sample glasses for patients to try on after their exams.
He introduces himself with a friendly smile as Dr. Aravind, his words and warm demeanor instantly putting me at ease. I explain my situation, and he listens intently, nodding in understanding. As I finish, he mentions that he lives in Alappuzha and generously offers a lifeline. He proposes that, since his journey back home isn't until dusk, I could assist him at the clinic until then. In return, he would provide me with transportation to Alappuzha when he leaves.
Relief washes over me as I eagerly accept his offer, thankful to trade my aimless waiting for a meaningful pursuit. Dr. Aravind hands me a stack of leaflets detailing the importance of eye exams and I know my role is to help spread awareness. Standing beside him, I hold out the leaflets, inviting passing travelers to stop in for a free eye check-up. The warmth of the emerging sun seems to mirror the warmth I feel within. The station's hustle resumes around us, but now I stand not as a solitary figure adrift but as part of a collective effort, my earlier isolation replaced by a newfound camaraderie.
It strikes me that perhaps this was more than mere happenstance. Dr. Aravind's offer, his simple act of kindness, had not only dispelled the looming clouds of my anxiety but had also reframed my perspective.
Walking through the station, I feel like a different person than the one who had arrived just a few hours ago. A group of children gather around me, their eyes wide with curiosity at the colourful leaflets in my hands. “What's this for, Chechi?” one of them asks, his head tilting up at me. I crouch to his level, explaining how eyes are like the lenses of a camera, capturing the world for us to remember. One small girl, with a gap-toothed grin, offers to help distribute leaflets. Before I know it, I'm leading a small army of earnest little volunteers, their laughter a merry chorus amid the station's constant thrum.
An elderly woman, her hair the colour of the dissipating clouds above, shares with me her tale of vision regained through such clinics. Her gratitude, woven with words of encouragement, is a gentle reminder of why this work matters. "You're doing good, child," she says, and I feel a kinship that crosses the boundaries of age and geography.
In the flurry, a man in a hurry collides with me, sending a cascade of leaflets fluttering like lost birds. He apologises and helps me gather them, his frustration softening into a chuckle. He says something in what I guess is Malayalam which I take to mean "Suppose it's a sign to slow down, eh?" He takes a leaflet with him as he strides away, a little slower this time.
A local artist, drawn to the cause, gifts us with a sign, replacing the cardboard with a vibrant beacon that draws more souls into our fold. It's as if his brushstrokes paint a brighter future, not just for those who come seeking aid but for me, in realising the impact one can have.
The day spent assisting Dr. Aravind had been enriching, immersing me in the warmth of genuine service and connection. Yet, the pressing issue of my dwindling funds cast a shadow over my thoughts. The station, with its blend of spices and myriad conversations, seemed to echo my own mix of fulfilment and apprehension.
A group of jolly British tourists catch my eye and bring a smile to my face. Decked out in a mix of panama hats, floral shirts, and loose cotton kurtas, they huddle together in a knot of good-natured bewilderment. Some brave souls sweat in full trousers and collared shirts, while others have adopted breezy kurta-pyjamas, nodding to local fashion. They attempt to decipher a map of the station, each member of the group confidently pointing in a different direction, their initial certainty quickly dissolving into cheerful confusion. As I approach them, leaflets in hand, ready to offer guidance, I mutter under my breath "A wrong stop, but perhaps the right place to be."
I approach them, confident I can help with directions after becoming familiar with the station throughout the course of the day. All they need are directions to their tour bus. I had earlier seen a brightly coloured bus several hundred meters from the station while handing out leaflets.
Escorting them to their waiting bus, I mention my predicament with the ATM. “Oh, we had the same issue!” exclaims one of the tourists, a woman with a reassuring voice. “But we found that the ATMs at Thiruvan...Theeruvan...I think the locals call it Trivandrum now, worked just fine. You should be able to sort it out there.”
She continues “We are heading back there after attending a tea-making competition in Munnar.” As she mentions the tea competition in Munnar, my ears perk up. A tea making competition? Images flood my mind - intricate tea ceremonies, aromatic steaming cups, passionate teams gathered around bubbling pots. What an incredible event to stumble upon, worlds away from my tiny town and a step closer to my destination.
As if reading my thoughts, one of the tourists asks with a broad smile “We've booked out the whole bus and have some spare seats. Fancy joining us for a bit of an adventure?”
The invitation to join them sparks a flicker of excitement in me. My heart brimming with gratitude for Dr. Aravind's kindness and a spirit ignited by the prospect of new adventures, I make my decision. This choice feels like a natural extension of the day's earlier experiences. A continuation of embracing the unexpected.
I approach Dr. Aravind, who is busy tidying up the remnants of the day's clinic, in nervous anticipation about the decision I have just made.
"Dr. Aravind," I begin, my voice tinged with sincere appreciation, "I can't thank you enough for everything today. Your kindness and the opportunity to help at the clinic have been incredible experiences for me."
He turns toward me, a gentle smile on his face, awaiting what I had to say next.
"I've been offered a ride to Thiruvananthapuram with a group of British tourists. They're going through Munnar, and there's this tea making contest...” I explain, my words trailing off, unsure of how he'd take it.
Dr. Aravind listens attentively, then nods understandingly. "Pandi, I'm glad you found another way to continue your journey. It's important to seize such unique opportunities when they come your way. You have a beautiful talent for connecting with people and Munnar is a beautiful place”.
His response is comforting, but his finger was pointing to something which truly cements my decision. There is a small quote by Proust at the bottom of the leaflet I had been handing out all day.
“The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes”.
These words echo in my mind as the bus pulls away from the station. A sense of freedom and anticipation coursing through me. The station fading behind us, I find a seat and the bumpy trip begins, the noise of Indian traffic and the exhausting events of the day catch up with me and I drift off to sleep.
The squeak of brakes and a sudden jolting stop force my eyes open. I stretch out my stiff limbs and stifle a yawn, still in a dream state, I slowly come to and glance around. The first thing I notice is the remarkable contrast between the dust of Aluva and the surrounds of a leafy, verdant landscape. The bus ride had been long enough to usher in a new morning, but I'd fallen asleep shortly after boarding. Teleported from urban chaos to bountiful hills.
As I step off the bus, the vibrant green tapestry of the tea plantations unfold before me. The air is crisp and invigorating, filled with the earthy scent of tea leaves and the subtle perfume of wildflowers that dot the landscape. My eyes trace the rolling hills, where neat rows of tea bushes cascade like waves, rhythmically swaying in the gentle breeze. The sun, breaking through the morning mist, casts a golden glow over the plantation, turning the dewdrops on the leaves into shimmering jewels. It's a scene of serene beauty, and for a moment, I'm lost in its tranquility, feeling a connection to the land and its timeless charm.
Making my way toward the competition stage, I tread along a narrow path lined with lush foliage, the soft rustling of leaves underfoot blending with distant sounds of laughter and chatter from a gathering crowd. The stage, set against the backdrop of the picturesque hills, is abuzz with activity. Colourful banners, each bearing the name of a competing team, flutter in the breeze. The air is alive with anticipation for the contest. This blend of nature's calm and the festival's dynamic energy is exhilarating, and I find a spot to sit to fully immerse myself in the scene."
Catching the eye of one of the British tourists, a broad smile comes upon both of our faces and I wave. Already deep into contest preparations, their rapport and cheerful disposition, laughter and chatter were fuelling their confidence. My gaze travels across the stage assessing the range of cultures and tradition on display.
"Samurai Sippers" in their elegant kimonos, move with a grace and precision that's almost meditative.
The "Dragon's Cup" team's deep reverence led by a renowned tea sage who all team members defer to and consult when assembling their station.
There is vibrant energy and aroma of a special masala blend coming from the "Masala Chai" team, a group of Indian aunties each with decades of experience in the art of chai making.
"Minty Maghrebi". A team composed of Moroccan tea enthusiasts, their love of mint tea evident in the way they prepare their ingredients, with an elaborate looking berrad used to serve each sugary, minty cup.
A team from the "Indian Institute of Technology - Madras" is a contrast to the traditional approaches around them. A precisely measured experimental approach to brewing tea, and their methodical understanding of the chemistry behind tea flavours likely to give them an edge in creating a perfectly balanced brew.
This isn't just a competition; it's a gathering of skill and spirit from across the globe, unified by their love of tea. Just a few hours earlier, the thought of a tea-making competition might have struck me as trivial, even amusing in its seriousness. Wasn't it merely a contest about brewing tea? A daily routine for many, turned into a spectacle? Yet I'm eager to watch the contest unfold, to see how each team's unique approach will come together in a symphony of flavours and aromas.
Each group is a whirl of activity, their excitement palpable. The sun is now high over the Munnar tea plantation, casting a warm glow on the sea of green around me. I'm sitting on a bench in front of the competition stage, lost in the buzz of team's preparations when I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see an elderly man with a gentle smile. He's wearing a simple, crisp white kurta that seems to blend with the serene surroundings.
"Which is your team?" he says in a soft, amiable voice. His question, though casual, carries an unmistakable wisdom in its tone, compelling an immediate response from me. "It's all quite fascinating," I reply, returning his smile. "I've never seen anything like this back in Kalumburu." I start to talk about the experience of getting a ride from the British tourists when he interrupts.
“Hold that thought if you don't mind. This sounds like a good story, how about you tell me while you try your hand at making your own tea? I'm Hari by the way. Always in a hurry, they tell me!”
His playful joke forces another smile out of me and I accept with no hesitation. The idea of brewing tea, here amidst the experts and connoisseurs, is both daunting and exhilarating. There is a warmth and comforting demeanour in Hari's sparkling eyes. His face etched with the wisdom of years speaks of a lively curiosity.
I follow Hari over to a small, makeshift tea-making station behind the stage where the other contestants are still preparing and wonder where to start. As I fiddle with the teapot in front of me, my mind is far more occupied with the stories bubbling inside of me, eager to spill out, than with the intricate art of tea-making. While teams of experts are meticulously crafting their supreme versions of tea, here is just Hari and me, and my somewhat chaotic attempt.
I start with the water, sharing with Hari the story of my home in Kalumburu, the beaches and surging wet-season river, my voice laced with nostalgia. When the water boils, I move on to steeping the tea, my actions more automatic than thoughtful, lost in the tale of my adventures with Tili. The laughter and energy of those memories seemed to infuse the air around us.
As I gently pour milk into the brew and the serene amber of the tea transforms into a tempestuous whirlpool, I recount my somewhat comedic misadventures on the Indian train network. With clouds of white billowing in two cups, a swirling yet fleeting storm echoes the unexpected twist of my ATM card ceasing to work. Adding honey to my cup and sugar for Hari, I share memories of my afternoon with Dr. Aravind, the serendipity in our meeting, and the unexpected encounter with the British team.
But it is as I mention my ultimate destination, Uttiramerur, that I notice a distinct change in Hari. His already attentive demeanor shifts to one of heightened enthusiasm. He leans in, his eyes sparkling with a mix of curiosity and delight. It was as though the name of the village had turned a key within him, unlocking a well of excitement and interest.
Hari's questions about Uttiramerur are thoughtful and full of an eagerness that matches my own. His fascination is palpable, his every gesture showing a deep appreciation for the journey and its significance. There is a sense of connection in his enthusiasm, a shared understanding of the allure of small, uncharted places and their hidden stories.
In that moment, as I finish preparing the tea, it feels like our worlds have come together over a simple cup of tea and a shared curiosity. The steam rises from our cups and seem to carry with it not just the aroma of the tea but the essence of our newfound affinity. Hari's attentiveness to my story make the tea-making experience something far more profound than a mere drink; it was a moment stories, dreams, and connections were weaved.
"There's a certain energy about you, a sense of adventure that's hard to miss. It's refreshing,” Hari says. A soft, unguarded laugh spills from me as I give him the cup, and we make our way back to the stage.
He takes a cautious sniff and then a sip, his expression a mix of polite concealment and amusement.
"I think you've just invented a new flavour.” he begins, setting the cup down. "I think we can both agree that this tea is a bit of a work in progress, but I wouldn't trade the experience of making it with you for anything. The story behind it is priceless."
Our laughter rings out, echoing my gratitude for this unexpected friendship. Hari checks his watch. “Oh my, I've lost track of time! I must get back to my duties.” He gives me an apologetic look. “I'm afraid I have to leave you to enjoy the remainder of the contest, but thank you for the delightful diversion.”
With a friendly pat on my shoulder, he walks towards the stage. I sit down in my seat in front of the stage, as I watch Hari, unexpectedly, ascend the stairs.
Reeling from the revelation that unassuming Hari is the esteemed judge of the competition, I watch him with renewed admiration. He moves with an elegant ease, navigating the intricate world of the tea-making competition with a keen eye and gentle grace. His every step seems to carry the weight of tradition and expertise.
Hari moves from one team to another, tasting and nodding, occasionally asking a question. Sitting in the audience, amidst the flurry of activity, I'm struck by the symphony of aromas swirling around me, the robust earthiness of brewing leaves, the spicy notes of the masala chai, and the obvious passion of the teams. Initially an unwitting spectator, I am now enveloped by the artistry of the tea-making contest, compelling me to see it in a new light.
When Hari announces the winners, their joy is infectious. The Masala Chai team's victory is met with a burst of applause that ripples through the crowd, mixing with the rustling of leaves in the gentle Munnar breeze. The sounds of the contest - laughter, chatter, the clinking of teacups - create a melody celebrating the simple complexity of tea.
Hari concludes, "I am truly humbled by the dedication, passion, and skill that each team has demonstrated in this competition and grateful to all of you for accepting my invitation to attend."
As I rise to join the departing British tourists to help them pack up, Hari raises a finger, to make a final announcment.
"This year, we have had the pleasure of welcoming a very special guest to our competition. But welcome isn't the right word, more of an 'oosi' who arrived with our British contestants!” The term was lost on me, but those who spoke Malayalam were grinning at the joke.
“I witnessed today not just the art of tea making but also the art of storytelling. Her candidness, adventurous spirit, and stories have touched my heart.” Murmurs of curiosity rippled through the crowd as all eyes turned to me.
“Pandi, please join me on stage, I have a small gesture to help you on your journey."
The murmurs of the crowd are a soft backdrop to my thumping heartbeat as I step onto the stage, my hands trembling slightly. Walking to the stage my nervous grin broadens to a proud smile as Hari hands me a small envelope. There is a note inside and folds of cash - enough at first glance to cover my expenses for the rest of the trip.
My heart swells with gratitude. With the crowd applauding, Hari beckons a member of the IIT Madras team to approach and spoke with him at length before turning back to me.
"Pandi, I'd like you to meet Aatma, my son." Aatma's gaze was kind, his smile gentle, mirroring the warmth I had come to associate with Hari. "Should you wish it, he's well-acquainted with the roads to Tamil Nadu and is happy to be your companion and guide to Uttiramerur."
I turn to Aatma, slightly taken aback by this new development, but certain in another change of plan.
Feeling a mix of gratitude and excitement about the new turn of events, I approach the group of British tourists to inform them. Drawing their attention, I smile and say "I wanted to say thank you so much for your company and for inviting me to join you on the trip to Munnar. But it looks like my journey is taking an unexpected turn. Hari has arranged for his son Aatma to drive me to Uttiramerur. It's an opportunity I just can't pass up."
The tourists nod in understanding, some expressing their well-wishes. With heartfelt goodbyes and a few hugs, the tourists wish me luck on my continued journey. In anticipation of a long ride, I spend some time freshening up and reorgnise the contents of my backpack.
After farwelling Hari, Aatma and I walk toward a car, the plantation fading behind us. Aatma casually reaches out to feel the leaves on a row of tea bushes and breaks the silence, "So, Pandi, tell me about Kalumburu." His tone was genuinely curious, inviting me into a conversation. I smile, opening up to the road ahead, to the stories yet to be told on the road to Uttiramerur and beyond.