It was raining. Chinna was smoking a beedi under a black umbrella, outside my house. The rain flowed like a fountain from the umbrella to the ground. His face was barely visible.
“Come on in Chinna, why are you standing in the rain?”
He took three quick puffs, dropped the beedi, and sat on my verandah, folding his umbrella. His eyes were red, maybe from the smoke. He coughed, looked into my eyes and asked, “Are they allowing people to go back to their homes?”
“No, Chinna, we have to get a special pass from the district collector to go back.”
“Is it so?” he asked and coughed.
“Yes, also the other day, 16 migrant workers were run over by a train.”
Chinna stared deeply into my eyes as if I had said something which I should not have said.
He looked down and spoke, “I remember hearing stories from my grandmother about how she, along with my father, came from Thoothukudi to Trivandrum, to find a job, some 65 years ago.”
“She was afraid to travel outside her village, but somehow managed to come all the way here. She had only told us happy stories, or of funny incidents, but now I know what she must have gone through. She’s good at putting on a happy face, always.”
The rain got worse; an ambulance swashed through the flooded roads. “May all the workers reach back home safe,” said Chinna.
