A Downpour Of Memories

In The Aftermath Of The Floods, Nostalgia, Hope, And Lessons In Resilience Colour Snapshots From A Much-Loved Homestate.

- Rajani Thindiath

In the days before Konkan railway, travelling to Kerala by train took three days. Most Malayalis with roots in Kerala would make their annual trip during the sweltering summer holidays. The train would chug along lazily under the summer sun while the dry heat lay heavy on our lids, as we too made the journey from Mumbai. Through the blur of eyelashes, we’d see the land shimmer with heat haze—mile after mile of barren, parched land, broken periodically by a house or two, painted blue.

And then with the dawn of the last day, an occasional cool breeze would drift in through the windows. That is when Dad would wake me and my sisters to go brush our teeth, while finally the train slept, after the hustle bustle of the night. We would grumble and burrow deeper into our pillows, but Dad wouldn’t relent. He would tell us that we could sleep after we had brushed.

Water has the curious and decidedly final effect of chasing away all sleep, so when we’d come back to our seats, my sisters and I would scramble for the window seat. Between sleeping and waking, the land would have transformed. A weight seemingly lifting off our train as it picked up speed passing by green after green, punctuated only by the blue of lakes and streams. We would have entered Kerala.