Achan

In October 1989, Achan and I boarded the train for Punjab, my heart heavy against my wishes. As the wheels pulled away from Kottayam station, my beautiful world—my home, friends, the park, the club, CMS College—faded like a distant dream, slipping into a haze of memory. Achan’s calming presence, usually my anchor, couldn’t steer away the fear and anxiety gnawing at me about four years of hostel life in a Punjabi world. The two-day journey dragged on, the wheels of time slowing until they froze when we stepped onto Jalandhar railway station’s platform. Little did I know, this marked the end of my Kottayam chapter, and Achan, with his quiet strength, was guiding me toward an uncharted beginning.

My heart churned as we reached my college, a fortress of engineering brilliance. Just outside the hostel, I spotted an ancient sardar selling tea, his long, pristine white mustache and beard flowing like a river, so old it seemed I’d been born 200 years ago and dead for a century. His samosas and pakodas lay like neglected orphans, forgotten and desolate. Achan paused, serene as ever. “Your tea warms many, sir?” he asked gently. “Hundreds, daily,” the sardar replied, eyes bright. “Then you fuel futures,” Achan said, a quiet nod tying wisdom to simplicity, his brilliance flickering in few words. I clung to his calm, my fears of the unknown still swirling.

The hostel’s long corridor assaulted my senses: a sting of alcohol and urine, a bhajan clashing with chaos. To my left, a sardar with a mustache curled and waxed to knifepoints led a ragging session, his booming laugh terrifying a junior, stark and unreasonable panic lining the boy’s face. Tears welled up; I hugged Achan, silently begging not to be left alone in this alien India, so far from Kerala’s gentle embrace. Seniors eyed us, one calling, “New boy from the south?” Achan smiled softly. “He carries roots, grows wings here,” he said, his calm words disarming them, a senior nodding, “He’ll fit in, uncle.” His subtle insight steadied me, a shield against the storm.

At room 306, cluttered and cobwebby, a mirror to my apprehensive yet wondrous soul, I sat, shaken. Achan’s hand rested on my shoulder, firm and tender. “This hostel will be your true school,” he said, his voice low, a beacon of courage cutting through my dread. His silent confidence, a quiet force, urged me forward with a faint smile. Achan was a soft, silent man, speaking only when needed—scoldings, affection, anguish, and stress all melted into his stillness, a gentle authority guiding me true. When he spoke, his clarity sliced my confusion, a gift of his vast mind. “Write often, son,” he added, embracing me briefly before stepping away, leaving me to face the future.

Two months later, December 1989 stole Achan from me, a loss that carved a void only his memory could fill. At college, I faced four years of chaos—ragging, cultural clashes, late nights—yet his wisdom lingered, a compass in the storm. Time, like a four-legged creature, stood at room 306, hind legs in Kottayam’s fading dreams, front legs in hopes I’d build. This hostel, a warm place with no memory, became my forge, just as Achan foresaw. He didn’t just leave me at room 306; his quiet brilliance—his trust in my spirit—lit my path, teaching me to embrace the unknown and honor his legacy through every step.

On June 1st, 2025, Achan’s birthday, I sat with my memories, tears tracing paths down my cheeks as I wrote. I am a man on a journey, its destination veiled, but my heart holds fast to hope. I hope Achan rests on the other side, his spirit as warm and wise as I dream him to be. I hope to find him there, to fold him in my arms, his love mending my heart as mine mends his. I thank him for my brother, a mirror of his strength, a guide I cherish daily, and for Amma, whom we hold close with care, as he’d wish. When we meet, I’ll ask, “Achan, did I make you proud?”—a question only his voice can answer, waiting beyond the horizon of time.