Chapter 1 Coming home

It’s been a good two hours since I parted with my comfort zone to get onboard this train. The Indian Railways have always had a weird sense of humour. An express train...or so they call it. After what seems like an eternity of chugging and pushing, the iron wonder screeches to halt at Mylapur. Home at last.

No matter how much one hates travelling, or people, or even ‘express’ trains, one cannot but love the feeling when one sets foot in his home town after a long time. That reminiscent smell, these familiar looks from eyes that seem to know you, the sounds of clinking bottles in the early morning dew. As I recall memories of my own, drawing from these sights and sounds, nothing seems to have changed here. It is maintained that pensioners would find themselves at home here. Idyllic, calm and untouched; this place has always been a haven to live in.
I brush aside my nostalgia and move along the jostling crowd to make my way out. Holidays always bring an influx of home-comers, many of them settled in jobs at distant cities.

Today is no different I realize, cursing myself for not planning to get here a day earlier. There’s an incredible achievement that every Indian makes without ever realizing it. We stand in queues for nearly a year of our lifetime, maybe more. This wonderful enlightenment occurs when I reach the rickshaw stand- the sight of serpentine queues that only seem to grow with time. The pre-paid rickshaw service has found many a taker since my last visit.
As much as I hate to admit it, I simply love this town. A well-planned city that only seems to gain more grace with age, Mylapur personifies the adage ‘Old is gold’. The rickshaw brakes at 62, R.K. Nagar. Before I realize what’s happening, an overly excited voice runs towards me.

“Andy!! You’re home! Oh my God, I don’t believe this! “.

After a certain number of cliché exclamations, Mom finally returns to ground state. There is this peculiar warmth to a mother’s hug, its inexplicable; but it is right then that you realize, you’ve reached home.

“Come on ma! It’s not that big a deal. Can we just go in now?”

She gives me one of her many wise looks and we get in the house, tottering with luggage in hand. Even our old house seems to inherit her genes from the town herself. For nothing seems to have changed. Same old sofas, Mom’s flower arrangements adorning the hall and Dad with his morning paper on the arm chair.

“Andy, you made it huh? Good, good. Wash up and come to breakfast soon.”

Same old Dad.

As I head to my room, I seem to somehow hear guitar sounds. Unless it’s my schizophrenia acting up early, that must be Dave.

Meet David, my younger brother. Loathsome little bugger since as long as I can remember. We never did agree on a single issue. Ever. Here he is, sitting coyly in his room strumming sweet melodies with that rusty old guitar of his.

“Andy!”

What’s with everyone? I know my name! You don’t need to keep reminding me every few minutes.

“ Dave,” I acknowledge with a nod, “ When did you get here?”

“Last night. Thought I’d run into you at the station. You’ve changed your number yet again eh?”

“Yeah, I had to. Complications. Anyway, Dad’s waiting for breakfast. You coming?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Typical Dave.

We were born only a year apart, but our ideas for life seemed to be from different planets. I quietly head downstairs for the much anticipated holiday breakfast. It is a custom at our house, a large table with loads of goodies for the holidays. That poor family table has borne the brunt of many a family gathering, often carrying loads that would make even Atlas smirk. Atlas smirked. Nice title for a book, I smile invisibly, loading up on the morning quota.


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