The Journey to Ernakulam

“Most journeys change not the place we reach, but the way we see.”

Saratchandran had always believed life could be kept in order, like a neatly ironed shirt. If one planned carefully, followed routines faithfully, and avoided unnecessary trouble, life would remain smooth. Unfortunately, the world had never agreed to such arrangements. In the morning, he travelled to Ernakulam, and it began proving this with quiet determination.

His mother had spent twenty-three years protecting him from confusion and discomfort. Shirts were ironed before sunrise. Umbrellas appeared before the rain. Decisions were made long before he even knew decisions existed. To her, the world was too loud for a gentle boy, and comfort was not luxury but responsibility.

Only after she passed away did Saratchandran learn something important.

Life cannot be ironed flat. It keeps creating new wrinkles of its own.

So, on a damp September morning, carrying a neatly packed bag and confidence far less organised than his luggage, he boarded a second-class train to Ernakulam.

Even before the train began moving, the day had started misbehaving: a missing auto-rickshaw, a hurried scooter ride, and a brief encounter near a cowshed that would later feel strangely meaningful.

He had stayed the previous night at a relative’s house near Wadakkanchery. They were kind people, but time moved differently there. Alarm clocks rang without urgency. Tea appeared before cups were found. Three people discussed the location of one missing key as if it were a national emergency. By the time someone remembered his train, the morning had already slipped gently out of control.

Sometimes chaos does not arrive loudly; it simply refuses to follow our plans.

Relief arrived in the form of Anitha, the relative’s college-going daughter.

“Chetta, auto won’t come. We’ll go by scooter.”

Before he could object, his suitcase was secured between them, and he found himself riding behind her, holding both luggage and dignity. The wind disturbed his carefully combed hair, and village dust introduced itself freely to his perfectly ironed clothes.

As they left the compound, the scooter stopped beside a cowshed so they could find a rope. Neither of them knew the stop would become the true beginning of his journey.

The smell arrived first: hay, damp earth, and honest village life. Saratchandran stood cautiously outside while Anitha searched inside.

Something fluttered in the shadows.

“Cockroach,” she said casually.

He stiffened.

He was not afraid of cockroaches; he simply believed the world would function better without them. Brushing his sleeve instinctively, he failed to notice that one small traveller had already chosen his shirt as transport.

Some problems enter our lives quietly, long before we notice them.

By the time Saratchandran settled into the train, relief washed over him. The compartment was nearly empty, a rare blessing. A young woman sat by the window, with a boy of about fourteen beside her, who soon fell asleep.

She wore a simple churidar and carried herself with calm dignity, the kind that discouraged unnecessary conversation.

The train began to move. Vendors’ calls faded. Coconut trees passed like green fans turning slowly in the wind. For the first time that morning, Saratchandran relaxed. He believed the troubles were over.

Fifteen peaceful minutes later, he felt something move across his back.

At first, he ignored it.

Then it moved again, slowly, deliberately, travelling upward beneath his shirt.

His spine straightened. He sat perfectly still.

Outside, fields slid past peacefully. Inside, his carefully ordered world began collapsing, one cautious step at a time.

He shifted slightly. Nothing changed. The movement continued confidently, as though social rules did not apply to it. When it paused near his shoulder, Saratchandran faced a terrible truth: some emergencies cannot be handled politely.

Dignity often faces its greatest tests in the smallest moments.

A silent battle began.

At last, desperation overcame hesitation. Checking that the boy slept and the woman remained still, he tied his shawl between the luggage racks, creating a small curtain. With trembling speed, he removed his shirt and shook it.

The intruder dropped to the floor and disappeared beneath the seat.

Victory lasted exactly one second.

The curtain collapsed.

The shawl fell with a loud flop.

The woman woke.

Frozen, half-wrapped in cloth, Saratchandran pulled the shawl tightly around himself, looking like a man recovering from a respectable illness.

Unable to bear the silence, he spoke.

“I… I think I caught a cold.”

“Oh,” she said gently, “I was going to ask if you could open the window.”

“It might even be malaria,” he added nervously.

“I have herbal medicine,” she offered kindly.

“No, no. I never take medicine.”

A soft smile appeared on her face.

After a pause, he whispered, “Are you afraid of cockroaches?”

“Only if they come as a family,” she replied lightly.

“There was… one inside my clothes.”

Her laughter filled the compartment,  warm, kind, and completely free of judgment.

Embarrassment becomes lighter the moment someone treats it gently.

As the train slowed, buildings replaced fields. Saratchandran’s relief slowly turned into anxiety. Soon, the journey would end. She might remember him forever as the man who built curtains inside trains.

The train stopped.

Passengers gathered their belongings.

Just as he prepared to leave, she spoke again.

“Excuse me… could you help me find a porter and a taxi?”

He nodded.

After a pause, she added quietly, “Being blind makes railway stations difficult. My brother is new here.”

Saratchandran froze. Blind!

She had not seen anything.

Not the curtain.

Not his panic.
Not his embarrassment.
Not his foolish struggle.

 All his suffering had lived only inside his own imagination.

Something loosened within him, not shame, but relief.

Many fears exist only because we believe someone is watching us fail.

He guided her onto the platform, offering his arm. The noisy station suddenly felt kinder. Voices, footsteps, and announcements no longer pressed upon him.

Nothing outside had changed.

Only his fear had disappeared.

He watched the taxi move away into the crowd. People passed him by without noticing him, just as they always had.

Yet the world no longer felt threatening. It felt wide and forgiving, filled with people busy carrying their own worries.

And for the first time, the journey ahead felt easier than the one he had imagined behind him.

Adjusting his bag, Saratchandran walked toward the exit slowly.

He carried with him a quiet understanding:

Most fears are not created by the world, but by the eyes we imagine judging us.

For the first time, he did not feel the need to straighten the day before stepping into it.

And the journey ahead felt easier than the one he had imagined behind him.

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