The Decorated Bullock Cart and a Fading Memory

I am seventy-one now. At this age, many memories slip away quietly. Names fade. Faces blur. But a few memories stay alive, glowing softly deep inside.

One such memory is of my old school teacher, Vilasini Teacher of Vyazhapuram.

Even today, when I hear the long whistle of a train at night or see a bullock cart struggling through slushy village roads, her face comes back to me—tired, gentle, and full of quiet sadness. And a small ache rises in my heart every single time.

I was fifteen then, full of energy, dreams, and school-day excitement. She was the most sincere and dedicated person I knew. She lived a very simple life.

Her steps were slow, her words soft, and her silence heavy—heavier than her books.

I remember one journey with her more clearly than anything else. It has stayed with me all these years like a pressed jasmine flower kept inside an old Bible.

Every month, she travelled to the town treasury to collect the salary for all the school staff. That year, since we were the senior batch and would soon leave after our SSLC exams, I went with her as the school leader. We had to buy a few items for the school day celebration, our last one in that school.

It was a cool January morning. We travelled in a beautifully decorated bullock cart driven by old Sivan Chettan.

It was not an ordinary cart used for carrying sacks or firewood. This one had colourful cloth tied to the wooden frame, small bells around the bullocks’ necks, and a neatly spread coir mat for sitting. In those days, autos were rare, cars were almost unseen in village roads, and this cart felt like a precious luxury to us.

I felt proud sitting on it, imagining I was going on a memorable royal ride.

The fields around us shone with dew. Birds flew over the paddy. The sky stretched blue and wide. To me, everything looked magical. But she did not smile at any of it.

She had travelled on that same road for thirteen long years. For her, it was all the same—town to school, school to town, month after month.

She had once lived in Thrissur with her parents and her little brother. But life had taken them away too early. All she had left was one faded photograph of her mother.

Even that photo had blurred in the damp air of the schoolroom. When she looked at it, a quiet sadness always crossed her face.

As the cart moved, her thoughts were with us—her children in class. The SSLC exam was near. She worried whether we would pass. She carried all our futures in her heart more seriously than her own life.

A white jeep passed us. It was Haridas sir, a wealthy man from the next village. He stopped for a moment and greeted her politely. People said he drank too much. But he was always gentle with her.

I understood much later that she liked him a little, though she never once showed it.

The road soon became muddy. The wheels sank. Water splashed. The bullocks struggled. But she sat quietly, thinking of all the problems at school—the rude watchman, the uncaring manager, the inspector who hardly visited. Every burden was hers alone.

We stopped at a small tea shop. Even the drunk men there softened when they saw her. One man apologised for speaking rudely. Everyone respected her because she carried honesty and dignity in every step.

Later, we reached the river. It was deep after the rains. But Sivan Chettan still took the risk of crossing it. Cold water filled the cart. Her saree got wet. The groceries she had bought were spoiled. She did not complain.

She only sighed—a sigh that carried years of quiet struggle.

At last, we reached the railway crossing. A train was leaving the station.

My teacher stood there, wet and shivering. As the train passed, she saw a woman on the platform who looked exactly like her mother. Her face changed immediately. Something inside her broke open.

Memories she had locked away for years came rushing back—her parents, her childhood home, her little brother, her happy days in Thrissur.

She whispered “Amma…” in a trembling voice. Tears filled her eyes.

I will never forget that moment. For the first time, I saw the river of loneliness she carried inside.

Just then, Haridas sir’s jeep passed again. She smiled at him through her tears. For one brief second, she looked hopeful, as if life might still surprise her with kindness.

But the moment passed quickly.

The barrier lifted. She got back into the decorated bullock cart, cold and silent.

“Teacher, we have reached Vyazhapuram,” Sivan Chettan said softly.

That is how I remember her—not just as a teacher who wrote on a blackboard, but as a gentle, lonely soul who carried her pain quietly and still gave love to every child who sat before her.

Even now, when I cross that railway gate, I can almost see her again—standing in the fading light, her wet saree clinging to her, whispering “Amma” softly into the wind.

And every time, my heart feels that same slight, painful pull—
The pull of a memory that refuses to fade.