find Vidura at all. What then?
When they reached the hospital there seemed to be miles of people in long lines around it, crying, sobbing, screaming, demanding answers, urinating against the walls, kicking stones. Kokila held on to Ramanandam as they were jostled around in long queues.
The wounded were everywhere, spread on the floor, lying on filth, resting on small beds that were stained with blood and dirt, sitting on chairs. Their bodies were in different stages of disintegration. Some just had a few scratches, some had blood pouring out of their wounds still, and on some the blood had dried to a brown crust. Some were conscious and crying in pain, some were blissfully unconscious, and some were dying.
This was somehow worse than the train wreck where only the dead lay. Here it was harder to accept that Vidura might be one of the bleeding lives lying in all that filth and muck.
They didn’t find Vidura among the living.
Kokila threw up the half- dosa she had eaten when they came out from the morgue. Ramanandam put his arm around her and she leaned into him. Vidura wasn’t among the dead in the hospital either.
They waited outside the hospital with other relatives who hadn’t found their loved ones, and even those who had, for a bus that would take them to the Ongole railway station. Kokila and Ramanandam would have to wait for ten hours, until two in the morning, when the train for Visakhapatnam would arrive. From Visakhapatnam they would have to take a three-hour bus ride to Bheemunipatnam.
Kokila wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad that Vidura was not among the dead or the living. To have found his body or seen him wounded would have at least meant that she would have seen him. Now nothing had changed: he was still gone and she still didn’t know whether he was dead or alive.
“Maybe he was never on the train,” Kokila told Ramanandam when they were at the railway station, sitting on a small wooden bench waiting for their train. She had bought idlis from the station canteen and had fed him bite after bite. He still wore a wooden expression on his face and his eyes were the eyes of the dead.
“Maybe,” Ramanandam said, and managed a weak smile. “You shouldn’t have come, Amma Kokila. There are dark circles under your eyes.”
“I couldn’t let you go alone. I love him too,” Kokila said simply, and held the cup of coffee she’d bought for him against his lips.
On their way back in the bus from Visakhapatnam to Bheemunipatnam, they held hands again. This time it was Ramanandam who reached out for her. When they walked back to Tella Meda from the bus station in Bheemunipatnam, Kokila was almost sad that the intimacy she had shared with Ramanandam in the past days was now over.
“Thank you,” Ramanandam said before he opened the metal gate leading into Tella Meda’s garden. The gate was rusty and made a lot of noise when it was opened; it would alert those inside, waiting to hear about Vidura.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Kokila said shyly, suddenly conscious of her boldness in feeding Ramanandam and holding his hand.
“Yes, I do,” Ramanandam said, and brushed his hand over her head. “God bless you.”
Subhadra came running out as soon as the metal gate opened. She stopped when she saw Ramanandam’s face.
“No,” she cried out. “He can’t be dead.”
Ramanandam waved his hand and looked at Kokila, silently asking her to take care of the questions. He disappeared into his room while Kokila spent two hours telling everyone what happened.
“Bad business, boys running away from home,” Renuka said sternly to Kokila after everyone had left and they were sitting alone at the dining table in the verandah. “Bad business. It means there’s a devil in the house.”
“Means no such thing,” Kokila told her. “He ran away and that is terrible, but there is nothing wrong with this house.”
“But why did he run away?” Renuka demanded.
“If you hate it so much here,
When they reached the hospital there seemed to be miles of people in long lines around it, crying, sobbing, screaming, demanding answers, urinating against the walls, kicking stones. Kokila held on to Ramanandam as they were jostled around in long queues.
The wounded were everywhere, spread on the floor, lying on filth, resting on small beds that were stained with blood and dirt, sitting on chairs. Their bodies were in different stages of disintegration. Some just had a few scratches, some had blood pouring out of their wounds still, and on some the blood had dried to a brown crust. Some were conscious and crying in pain, some were blissfully unconscious, and some were dying.
This was somehow worse than the train wreck where only the dead lay. Here it was harder to accept that Vidura might be one of the bleeding lives lying in all that filth and muck.
They didn’t find Vidura among the living.
Kokila threw up the half- dosa she had eaten when they came out from the morgue. Ramanandam put his arm around her and she leaned into him. Vidura wasn’t among the dead in the hospital either.
They waited outside the hospital with other relatives who hadn’t found their loved ones, and even those who had, for a bus that would take them to the Ongole railway station. Kokila and Ramanandam would have to wait for ten hours, until two in the morning, when the train for Visakhapatnam would arrive. From Visakhapatnam they would have to take a three-hour bus ride to Bheemunipatnam.
Kokila wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad that Vidura was not among the dead or the living. To have found his body or seen him wounded would have at least meant that she would have seen him. Now nothing had changed: he was still gone and she still didn’t know whether he was dead or alive.
“Maybe he was never on the train,” Kokila told Ramanandam when they were at the railway station, sitting on a small wooden bench waiting for their train. She had bought idlis from the station canteen and had fed him bite after bite. He still wore a wooden expression on his face and his eyes were the eyes of the dead.
“Maybe,” Ramanandam said, and managed a weak smile. “You shouldn’t have come, Amma Kokila. There are dark circles under your eyes.”
“I couldn’t let you go alone. I love him too,” Kokila said simply, and held the cup of coffee she’d bought for him against his lips.
On their way back in the bus from Visakhapatnam to Bheemunipatnam, they held hands again. This time it was Ramanandam who reached out for her. When they walked back to Tella Meda from the bus station in Bheemunipatnam, Kokila was almost sad that the intimacy she had shared with Ramanandam in the past days was now over.
“Thank you,” Ramanandam said before he opened the metal gate leading into Tella Meda’s garden. The gate was rusty and made a lot of noise when it was opened; it would alert those inside, waiting to hear about Vidura.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Kokila said shyly, suddenly conscious of her boldness in feeding Ramanandam and holding his hand.
“Yes, I do,” Ramanandam said, and brushed his hand over her head. “God bless you.”
Subhadra came running out as soon as the metal gate opened. She stopped when she saw Ramanandam’s face.
“No,” she cried out. “He can’t be dead.”
Ramanandam waved his hand and looked at Kokila, silently asking her to take care of the questions. He disappeared into his room while Kokila spent two hours telling everyone what happened.
“Bad business, boys running away from home,” Renuka said sternly to Kokila after everyone had left and they were sitting alone at the dining table in the verandah. “Bad business. It means there’s a devil in the house.”
“Means no such thing,” Kokila told her. “He ran away and that is terrible, but there is nothing wrong with this house.”
“But why did he run away?” Renuka demanded.
“If you hate it so much here,
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