A Helping Hand

    I looked down at my watch - 09:13 am. The heat was bearable but it was only April. Easter had been a good break for me and now I was going back to college. I walked past the baggage security check and looked to my right, where a footbridge was. The Thrissur railway station was a bit crowded considering that it was rush hour and the middle of the week. I looked to the left and spotted some seats beneath a ceiling fan, right next to the deputy station master's office. I placed my suitcase under a seat, my bookbag on my lap, and looked at my watch again. It was now 9:20 am. A young woman in her late twenties was seated across from me. She was wearing a black and white Kalamkari print Kurti with a pair of red palazzos. Her mask covered most of her face and she had shades on. I'd likely stared for a couple of minutes when all of a sudden, an elderly lady rushes to stand next to her.  I look over and see that she's accompanied by a young girl roughly aged around 10 or 12 years, who's on a phone as soon as she sits down, blaring a Zomato ad.

The young woman puts her phone on her lap and asks, "What happened?" The elderly woman, clad in a wrinkled peach-colored saree, begins to animatedly explain something to her. Her eyes were wide and her sweaty forehead glistened in the daylight. Although it was in Malayalam, I could only catch on to a few words she spoke because of her strong accent that was immediately identifiable as one that came from staying in and around Trivandrum for a long, long time.

"They are saying there are no more tickets," she began but was cut off by the woman I'd observed earlier.

"Why don't you sit down Amma? We will see about it when the next train comes along." (Sometimes, 'Amma' which means 'mother' is a term of endearment to an elderly woman.)

"Molea, I've been here for over three hours. If they keep saying this, what will I do? (Sometimes, 'Molea' which means 'daughter' is a term of endearment to a younger woman.) The girl tried to smile at the woman, helplessly. I shook my head and lowered my eyes, thinking it was better not to offer half-baked advice, especially to a person who needed nothing but timely help.

"Where do you have to go, Amma?" a new, loud voice came and I raised my head towards it. The elderly lady looked from the girl sitting down to the middle-aged lady standing next to her, and it was almost painfully visible; how she was trying to make up her mind, as seconds passed. The new member of the trio (I’m calling her ‘Red’ from now on) was wearing a red and white, pin-tucked churidar set; her hair was half-tied, held together by a tiny braid that ran down the entire length of her damp hair.

"Molea, I have to go to Trivandrum," the older woman said.

"A daily passenger train is coming soon. Why don't you get a ticket for that, and then go by bus to Trivandrum from Kochuveli? It is quicker that way," Red suggested.

The older woman paused for a moment, "I will go try again." Five minutes later, she comes back; appearing disappointed, and says that she’s not being given a ticket.

"Ok, which ticket do you have with you now Amma?"

"I don't have a ticket, Molea. Whenever a train comes, they're saying that there is no reservation available."

"Amma did you ask for a general ticket?"

"They aren't listening to anything I say anymore." The older woman said in exasperation.

Red looked at her watch for a moment and nodded her head, "Amma sit here," she held the woman by her drooping shoulders and made her sit on the nearest chair, "mm, now pass me a hundred rupee note; I'll get you your tickets." The old woman gave her the cash and looked on as the younger woman briskly walked towards the ticket counter.

I think I blinked at least eight times at this point. 'What is the old lady thinking? She just handed a stranger some cash without even worrying about how it could go wrong?' I frowned, 'Wait a minute, I'm a stranger too. Why was I so quick to label the whole situation? The poor woman might be at a point of giving up, which probably explains why she is still seated but is facing her head towards the ticket counter.' I took a moment to close my eyes, 'Abba, I know you've seen a way out of this. So I'm just going to watch for as long as I can.' When I reopened my eyes, the time was 9:28 am. I spot Red; she is half-running, half-walking.

"Amma, I got them." My eyes immediately went to the elder woman's face and I could see her disbelief, till she was handed the pink-and-white rectangular piece of paper that guaranteed her impending travel. "You need to hurry though," Red was still speaking, "your train will be here in four minutes!" She was now picking up some of their bags and handing them to the pre-teen, "You need to go to stand beyond that footbridge," she said pointing to her left, "the general coaches will begin there. The ones near the engine will already be too crowded for you both." The older woman opened her mouth to say something but Red simply patted her shoulder with an eye-crinkling smile and gestured for them to hurry. As if on cue, a horn blared in the distance, and tingles shot up from my little toe to the back of my neck.

At 9:35 am, the train is leaving the Thrissur station and we're able to get a glimpse of the old woman and the little girl waving from a window. Red’s eyes crinkle again as I sighed happily. Then it was quiet, just for a fleeting moment before the station plunged again into the regular white noise of a Wednesday. I couldn't stop looking at Red. She was now sitting on a platform cement bench, with her left side to me, scrolling on her phone. It was then that I noticed her ID card - it was a white one with a red tag that read 'Dept. of Health, Government of Kerala' in bold, big, white letters. I nearly slapped myself for not noticing this before becoming skeptical a while ago. Another train horn blared and the woman was now standing - it was 9:45 am. I kept my eyes glued to her as she climbed up those dull, yellow metal stairs of the train and disappeared beyond the door. She was going to continue her day, like every other person on that express train, perhaps only partially aware of the helping hand she was, to a desperate soul.