Train ride to Tuticorin

Every summer, like clockwork, I’d be sent off from the heat and noise of Ambattur to the salt-kissed breeze of Pazhayakayal.                                                                                          My maternal grandmother Poornaachi lived there, in a sleepy little village ten miles south of Tuticorin. That one month with her was a gift wrapped in sea wind, fish curries, and slow, unhurried time. But before all that could begin, there was the train ride to Tuticorin — an adventure in itself.                                                                                          It began at Madras Egmore station, a place that pulsed with life. Vendors wove through the crowd calling, “Tea, coffee, cool drinks!” The air was thick with the scent of snacks, fruits, and tiffins from the VLR (Vegetarian Light Refreshment) shops. The station was a chaotic, buzzing hub, with the loudspeaker overhead crackling announcements.

 “Payanigalin anbaana gavanathitku,” the familiar voice echoed across the platform, announcing the arrival of the train. I’d clutch a ten-rupee note in my hand, already knowing exactly what I wanted — a Tinkle comic. It was a ritual.

My cousin Amalan and I always fought over the window seat. “Last time you sat there!” “No, it was you!” The argument never really ended. Sometimes, we’d both try to squeeze into the narrow seat, elbows out, eyes wide.

The train would leave around 6 p.m., just as the city began to cool. As we pulled out of Egmore, we passed the suburbs of Chennai, the landscape shifting from crowded streets to open skies. At railway crossings, people on scooters and cycles waited, shielding their eyes from the setting sun. Some waved. We always waved back. When you’re a kid, the world is a curious place. Me and Amalan would eavesdrop on the adults’ conversations, trying to make sense of what they were discussing. Sometimes intriguing, sometimes boring. We’d catch snippets of stories about families, work, or politics, piecing together what we could, while our imagination filled in the gaps.

The TTR came by with his coat and ticket puncher — click click — a familiar sound that made the journey feel official. After Tambaram, the city slowly disappeared behind us. Fields opened up. Tiny huts dotted the horizon. The sky turned gold, then faded into a deep purple.

Dinner was always Amma’s idlis, soft and still warm, wrapped in banana leaves and newspaper. Her thick kadalai chutney came in a small steel thooku chatti — a small steel container that fit perfectly in her hand. We sat on the lower berth and ate, the train gently swaying beneath us, the smell of chutney mixing with the cool night air. Outside, the darkness slipped past the window like a quiet river, and inside, the rhythm of the wheels and the warmth of Amma’s cooking made everything feel just right.

There were three berths — lower, middle, and upper. We argued over those too. Somehow, I usually ended up on the middle one, floating between the floor and the ceiling like a suspended dream. I’d lie there and stare out of the window, watching tiny lights flicker in distant homes. I used to wonder what stories lived behind those lights. Were they eating dinner like us? Laughing? Fighting? Sleeping?

By morning, we would have passed Madurai and rolled into Vanchi Maniyachchi Junction. The train paused just long enough for a real breakfast — hot poli wrapped in leaf, crispy vadai, and coffee in steel tumblers. That first sip — too hot, too sweet — was always a sign that we were getting close.

The last stretch was slower. The train became more like a local, stopping at small stations where new passengers boarded with baskets, bundles, and sleepy-eyed children. The air smelled different now — of salt, wind, and dried fish. Palmyra trees lined the tracks. I recognized the land. I recognized the light.

Then came Tuti Melur. That was our cue. We packed our bags, fixed our hair, folded the bedsheets. I pressed my face against the window, heart thumping. And finally, at exactly 7:30 a.m., we rolled into Tuticorin station.

And there she was — Aachi. In her crisp cotton saree, hair tied in a neat silver bun, holding a katta pai in one hand and wearing that unmistakable smile that could melt the tiredness of any journey. We’d run to her, luggage forgotten for a second. She’d pull us into her arms and give us a big hug. “Come, my dears. Praise God you made it safe," she’d say, with her eyes beaming with happiness — the kind we could only see in grandmothers.

Years have passed. Trains have changed. Egmore station is still crowded, but something about it feels quieter now. I live far from Ambattur, far from Pazhayakayal, far from that simpler time. But every now and then, the smell of ocean by the beach or a rail trip I have to take would bring it all rushing back.

And in those moments, I close my eyes and wish — just once more — to be on that train to Tuticorin.