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The Delayed Train
Short Story by Lakshmi Menon

After lunch, while telling amusing stories, Meera put her grandson to sleep beside her. When she was sure the baby had drifted off, she carefully slid her hand away from his tiny body, not wanting to wake him, and reached for the half-read magazine on the bedside table. Until his mother returned from the office, little Apoorv was in his grandmother’s care.

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Meera turned the pages, but within five minutes her eyelids grew heavy. She set the magazine aside, rested her hand gently on Apoorv again, and slipped into her usual afternoon nap.

“Tr…tr…trrrr…” The shrill ring of the telephone startled her awake. Yawning, she rose from the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Meera, can you guess who this is?” came a lively voice from the other end.

For a moment, Meera was confused. The voice was so familiar that her heart skipped a beat before recognition dawned.

“Smitha Francis?” she asked hesitantly.

“No!” came the prompt reply, followed by a cheerful laugh. “Don’t strain yourself guessing. It’s me—Viji.”

“Vijiiiiii!” Meera cried out, her voice rising like that of an excited child. Her mind instantly conjured the face of her old friend, whom she had not seen in over twelve years.

“Is it really you? Or am I dreaming?” she whispered in disbelief. “Where are you calling from?”

“I’m in Coimbatore, at my sister’s house. I wanted to check if you’d be home tomorrow—I’d love to come and meet you.”

“What wonderful news! Come tomorrow morning itself,” Meera urged eagerly.

“I’ll join you for breakfast then. We’ll talk more in person.”

As soon as she hung up, Meera’s heart flooded with memories of their college days.

Meera, Viji, and Jose had once been inseparable classmates at the Commerce College. Meera had been the shy one, Jose the quiet observer, and Viji—the life of the group. She was bold, talkative, and effortlessly friendly with everyone. Jose admired her spirit, and before long, the two fell deeply in love. They dreamed of marrying once they had secured jobs.

Everything seemed on track—Jose became a bank clerk, Viji a schoolteacher. But as with most love marriages of their time, challenges soon followed.

Viji, though the eldest daughter in a conservative Brahmin family, managed to gain her father’s reluctant approval. He had been cautious ever since losing his wife years earlier, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny his daughter’s happiness.

Jose’s situation was far more complicated. Orphaned as a baby, he had been raised by his aunt, Bensy, who had sacrificed her own prospects of marriage to raise him as her own. For her, Jose was her entire life. But when he confessed his wish to marry Viji, her disapproval was absolute.

It wasn’t Viji she disliked—it was her religion. “Converting won’t change who she truly is,” Bensy declared firmly. “She is not from our community. I cannot accept her.”

“Ma, if you just meet her once, you’ll see what a sweet, lovable girl she is,” Jose pleaded. “I’ll bring her home tomorrow.”

But when he did, Bensy refused even to step out of her room. Humiliated, Viji told Jose she could not marry into such hostility.

Jose, desperate, promised her: “Any day I marry, it will be only you. But I must wait for my mother’s blessing.”

Viji’s voice trembled with anger and hurt. “She will never agree, Jose. Didn’t you see how she shut the door on me?”

But Jose held firm. “If you can wait, please do. Otherwise… I won’t stop you. I cannot go against her.”

It was the end of that conversation, though not of their love.

Years passed. Viji’s father grew anxious as proposals arrived and were rejected. “Your younger sisters are also of marriageable age,” he reminded her painfully. Reluctantly, he married off his other daughters, while Viji remained steadfast.

Jose, unable to bear the tension, sought a transfer to Hyderabad, hoping distance might free Viji. It didn’t.

When her father died, Viji’s world grew lonelier. Jose, too, was worn down. After years of trying to sway his mother, he finally told Viji to marry someone else. In desperation, he even introduced her to a Brahmin friend, Vasanth, who was willing to marry her.

Viji’s eyes blazed. “Tomorrow I’ll bring you a girl and ask you to marry her. Will you obey me then? Don’t tell me to do what you yourself cannot!” With that, she walked away, never looking back.

Meanwhile, Bensy pressed Jose to marry Rebecca, a neighbor’s niece. She cooked his favorite dishes, praised Rebecca endlessly, even arranged meetings. Jose refused every time. But rumors of his impending marriage spread, and soon reached Viji. Heartbroken, she left for Chennai, where she lived quietly in a hostel, devoting her life to her students, nieces, and nephews.

Meera lost touch with her during those years, except for one brief letter when Viji couldn’t attend her son’s wedding. Through relatives, she later learned that Viji had remained unmarried.

And now, after all those years, the doorbell rang—and there stood Viji, draped in a maroon silk sari, silver strands glinting in her hair. Beside her stood Jose.

“Meera,” Viji said quickly, reading her friend’s startled eyes, “this is Jose. I’m sure you remember him.”

Meera’s heart clenched. She wanted to shout at him—to call him a coward who had let his mother dictate his life. But she swallowed her words for Viji’s sake.

The short story The Delayed Train continued here....