The First Bus to Idukki
The first bus to Idukki from Ranni leaves before dawn. She slipped out of the house quietly, her Hawaii slippers slapping against the damp earth, the sound slicing through the stillness of dawn.
At the junction, the KSRTC limited-stop bus waited, its engine rumbling, dark smoke puffing from the exhaust. The board read Idukki to Ranni instead of the other way. Lazy crew, she thought.
The driver noticed her silhouette, checked his watch, muttered something to the conductor, and took a few quick drags of his beedi before flicking it into the drain. The bus roared to life, carrying her toward the hills where she had decided to end it all.
She held her ticket tightly, destination Idukki, the same valley that had taken him. Soon, she hoped, it would take her too.
Ranni slipped past, leaving behind shuttered shops, a lone dog by a tea stall, and a clattering door somewhere. That small town, once their world, had grown hollow in his absence.
The road climbed steadily. Rubber trees gave way to cardamom, the air turning crisp and sweet. Mist brushed against the windows, parting now and then to reveal valleys drowned in blue shadow.
At Kattappana, the conductor announced a ten-minute halt. She frowned. Every minute felt like a delay, a pause between her and peace. She watched the driver sip tea at a roadside stall, her impatience edged with something she couldn’t name.
When the bus moved again, the world seemed newer. By the time it curved into Idukki, sunlight had scattered the mist into silver. The reservoir shimmered far below, serene between green hills.
The bus wheezed into the pothole-laden bay of the Idukki bus stand. She stepped down, and the earthy scent of rain filled her nostrils.
She walked past the shops and took the narrow path to the old dam viewpoint, the one she’d read about. The valley stretched vast and endless. Wind tugged at her shawl; below, the water glistened like glass. She could already sense the quiet it promised.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, her final breath, she thought, when a soft whimper broke the spell.
A scruffy puppy stood near her, paws muddy, ribs faintly visible. It wagged its tail once, uncertainly, before sitting by her feet. She knelt and reached out. The pup licked her trembling fingers, very warm, alive, unknowing.
The dam still roared below; the abyss still waited. But something inside her had shifted.
She sat on a rock, the puppy in her lap, watching the sun rise over the hills, bright, unyielding, suddenly unbearable in its beauty.
A thought crossed her mind: the ten-minute halt at Kattappana.
Had she arrived earlier, would she have met the pup? Maybe. Maybe not.
Nature, she realized, takes you only when it must. Until then, it finds ways to hold you back.
With the puppy in her arms, she walked back to the bus stand. The board still read Idukki to Ranni.
Perfect! She smiled.
