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I don't know how they became friends in no time. Both of them were dumped into the coach by their families with great relief. As the train moved, I saw the two women looking at each other curiously, as if falling into love or finding soulmates. Destination or native place becomes a stepping-stone to make friends on trains. This was quite true in the case of the two old women: "Engotta (Where are you going)?" "Ernakulam. Engotta?" "Thiruvalla."
Mariamma, like all of her kind, was more talkative. For her, talking was more essential than breathing: "I am going to my youngest son's house in Thiruvalla. It is our 'tharavadu'. But I don't like to stay there as I can't put up with my daughter-in-law. In fact, I don't like to stay with any of my daughters-in-law. Why should I be a nuisance for them for long?" She continued, "I have three sons and three daughters. All are married. My eldest son is in Malabar. My second son is in Madras. I won't stay with any of them for more than a month. I keep moving from one son to another always. It would be a great relief for me and for them." The eternal traveller and talker would not allow the craving-to-speak-Bhargaviyamma to open her mouth. At last, Bhargaviyamma seized the moment when Mariamma paused to breathe. Bhargaviyamma started her epic: "I am staying with my son in Madras. We have been here for 10 years. Now I am going to see my sister. She has been inviting me for many months. Tell me, how can I go? How can I afford the train fare? Here we have to pay even for water." "Like you, I don't like to stay with one son and daughter-in-law always. But where can I go? You have three sons and three daughters to go to. But I have only one," Bhargaviyamma sighed. The moment Bhargaviyamma paused to catch her breath, Mariamma resumed. They continued like that even while having food. (What happened to their husbands? There was no mention.) The almost healthy talk gradually turned into gossip and so their voice became milder and milder. I had to sharpen my ears.
The train reached Ernakulam and Bhargaviyamma began to collect her bags. No address taking, no jotting down phone number; but they parted with a cool "Varatte" and "Ennal atte". As the train left Ernakulam, the lonely Mariamma was searching another like-minded gossipy person. I saw her watching me curiously and expectantly, but I was more interested in the June showers of Kerala. And I continued to eavesdrop on the raindrops. Salil Jose Readers' response/inputs can be e-mailed to salil@chennaionline.com.
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Eavesdropping cannot be a crime when one is travelling by train without anything to read or without a walkman. So I am justified in having sharpened my ears to two women above 60 years who were my fellow travellers during a recent rail-dash to Kerala.
I don't know their names and don't think they knew each other's name. However, for the sake of the proper reporting of eavesdropping, I would call them 'Bhargaviyamma' and 'Mariamma'. As you guess, the naming is solely based on their apparels (One is on set-mundu and the other was on chatta-kavuni, representing Hindu and Christian backgrounds in Kerala.)
When I lay on the middle berth, I heard mutterings from the lower berths and I woke up after 6 a.m. morning listening to the same. Didn't they sleep?
