Through the Train Window to Palakkad
The summer of Palakkad had its own fragrance — the excitement of railway platforms buzzing with voices, the shrill whistle of the train, the clatter of footsteps, and the vendors’ chorus of “chaya, vadai!” creating a festival-like atmosphere even before the journey began.
Boarding the train with my parents and brother was always a moment of delight. We kids claimed our seats by the window, eagerly peering out as the train slowly pulled away, the light breeze of the early morning brushing against our faces.
Through that wide-open frame, Kerala unveiled herself. The journey was painted in shades of green — endless stretches of paddy fields, their blades swaying gently in the morning sun. Coconut palms stood like silent companions, and little stations with yellow name boards — Ottapalam, Shoranur — marked our progress. Crossing the Bharathapuzha, its waters spread wide and calm, was always a moment of awe.
Inside the coach, the rhythm of the wheels was joined by simple pleasures: sipping hot chaya, the smell of freshly fried vadai carried in by the vendors at every stop, and sometimes a snatch of an old Malayalam song drifting from a co-passenger’s radio. Back then, everything felt simpler and cleaner — the sights, the sounds, the morning breeze — untouched by modern chaos.
Arriving in Palakkad town meant being swallowed in warmth and activity. Cousins came running, calling our names, and the town streets and parks were full of laughter. Days slipped into a blur of playing cricket in the open squares, meeting new friends, and exploring familiar places. Afternoons often took us to The Vatika, the children’s park, Malampuzha, and even the old Fantasy Park, where rides and laughter seemed endless. Every corner held a new memory — racing along the pathways, cheering during cricket matches, or discovering small adventures with cousins and neighborhood friends.
These trips did more than fill my childhood with joy; they fueled my fascination with places and traveling. Watching the landscapes change outside the train window, feeling the rhythm of the wheels, and the bustle of every railway station planted a curiosity and love for exploration that has stayed with me ever since. Train journeys and stations became my favorite places — spaces full of stories, anticipation, and the simple thrill of movement.
After ten or fifteen days, the return always felt heavier. The ride back home was quieter, though the train retraced the same path. I would watch the paddy fields and the Bharathapuzha once again, waving silently as if promising me they would be waiting for my next visit.
Those journeys remain etched in memory. Even today, when I hear a train whistle, catch the aroma of hot chaya, feel the light morning breeze, or listen to an old Malayalam melody, I find myself once more by that window — racing past green fields towards the heart of Palakkad town, back when life felt simpler, cleaner, and full of wonder, and when my love for seeing the world was quietly taking root.