text: Reedsy Prompt: Start your story with someone looking out a train window The Final Journey Raghavan strode through the compartment of the Vellore to Bangalore train, ticket in hand, looking for his allotted seat. Thankfully, it was by the window. He sat down with a sigh of relief. His escort Ramu, took charge of stowing his small suitcase in the berth above his head. “I will come back and check on you a little later, saami,” he said, folding his hands together. Raghavan nodded, and Ramu went back to his seat in the third class carriage behind this one, interconnected by a short swaying bridge. Raghavan stretched out his long legs and stared with unseeing eyes at the melee outside the window. Typical of most Indian train stations in 1942, the dimly-lit platform was crowded with people rushing about, trying to find their seats on the train. Skinny, dark skinned coolies with luggage piled high on their heads and holding more bags in their hands darted in and out of the crowds, frantically keeping track of their customers. I am glad I was able find a seat in a first class compartment thought Raghavan to himself, observing the din and confusion outside. Looking around he observed the other occupant of the coupe. It was an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark coat and pants, and wearing a white turban. Probably a high ranking government employee , guessed Raghavan, who can afford to travel by first class. He returned to his own thoughts, staring out the window. The events of the past few weeks played out in his mind. He had had to resign his post as the stenographer to Lord Linlithgow, one of the last Viceroys of India in 1942, because of his ill health. The cold climate of Simla, situated in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh, exacerbated his asthma symptoms. He had returned to Madras where his wife Kamala had stayed behind with their large and growing family. “Your asthma is getting worse,” Dr. Krishnan said. “Why don’t you go to Vellore Medical Center, they may have some better options?” Vellore was the southern city that boasted the largest medical facility in India at that time - the Vellore Medical Center and Medical College. It had been established by an American woman, Ida Scudder, in 1902--her father was a Christian Missionary Doctor there. Raghavan thought fondly of his wife and children, and the patience with which they had handled his frequent asthma attacks as he sat up in bed every night, his body racked by severe coughing. There were no antibiotics, inhalers or other medications available at the time for treating asthma. At his wife’s urging Raghavan decided to follow the doctor’s advice and make a short trip to Vellore by himself. He would stay in a rented house and the cook, Ramu, would accompany him for safety as parts of the country were still under air raid warnings - when the shrill siren sounded everyone had to dive under the table for shelter. Kamala could not go with him as the children were not old enough to be left alone. Raghavan consulted several eminent doctors that had been recommended to him in Vellore. They all shook their heads when they read his prognosis notes. “Our options are very limited”, said Dr. Pillai, supposedly an expert in asthma treatments. “You’ve already tried everything that your doctor in Madras had recommended. We have nothing new to offer. But we can try again and see if anything works.” After a week of treatment the asthma symptoms were not much better. The doctors had run out of options. Raghavan sent a telegram to Kamala to say that he would be coming back in a few days. He got an immediate and terse reply. “Go to Bangalore”, it said. “Letter follows”. Raghavan knew that his wife did not know enough English to be able to write a longer reply. But the postal system in India then -- and now-- is excellent - there are three deliveries a day and even the remotest village is connected. A few days later he got a long letter, written in Tamil. Apparently Kamala had been in touch with her brother Srinivasan, a doctor in the British Army who was stationed in Bangalore, informing him of her husband’s ill-health. He had urged her to tell Raghavan to come to Bangalore, where he would personally supervise his treatment. Kamala told her husband to go to Bangalore immediately. Srinivasan would meet him at the station. xxx The engine driver sounded the first warning hoot. The loud speakers crackled and then a stentorian voice announced in English, Hindi and Tamil--as was customary--that the train was departing soon. There was a flurry of activity on the platform outside as people said their last goodbyes and hurried to their carriages. The station master, wearing his black hat and white uniform and holding a green flag under his arm strode up and down the platform, urging the malingerers to board. With two more long hoots and a sudden jerk the train began to move--slowly at first and then picking up speed as the Station Master waved his green flag back and forth. The waving passengers, the Railway waiting room and the news vendors and tea shops soon became a blur as the train hurtled towards Bangalore. xxx Raghavan shifted his body and watched dusk rapidly settle into night. He looked forward to arriving in Bangalore and resolving his health problems. He thought again of his wife and children--they had been alone long enough while he worked far away in Simla--they deserved to have him come home and take charge of everything. The first class carriage attendant came by and offered him a dinner menu. Raghavan waved him away--he had already eaten before boarding. The train had now settled into a steady clacking rhythm and everything was quiet. The lights in the compartment had been automatically dimmed. His neighbor in the other seat was already asleep, his head resting on his chest. Lulled by the solitude Raghavan relaxed his head and fell asleep. Sometime later he was awakened by a strange feeling. Struggling to breathe, he pulled out his handkerchief and tried to stifle his coughing. Everything seemed out of control - he wanted to shout for help but his body wouldn’t move. He slumped down in the corner of his seat. He did not see Ramu come in to check on him in the middle of the night. He did not feel him touch his shoulder and realize that he was dead. He did not see him check the breast pocket of his suit and take out the wad of notes. He did not see Ramu quickly and stealthily go back to his third class compartment, from which he would alight at the next station and melt into the crowd. xxx The train slowed down and stopped with a jerk at the next small station before Bangalore. As the sky turned pink a uniformed Ticket Collector boarded the compartment and knocked on the swinging doors before entering. Ticket Please! He announced loudly, waking up the gentleman with the white turban. The man roused himself and handed over his ticket with a dazed look. Punching a hole in it the Ticket Collector handed it back. Ticket Please! He repeated to Raghavan, but there was no response. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped on his chest. The Ticket Collector touched Raghavan’s shoulder to shake him awake. His whole body tilted to the side. The engine driver gave a warning hoot. The Ticket Collector reached up and gave a firm pull on the Emergency Brake handle, to stop the train from moving. Telegram! The postman called out in a loud voice the next morning. Kamala opened the telegram from her brother with trembling fingers. Her legs almost buckled under her as she realized the implications. She was now a widow at 38 years, responsible for a large family of seven minor children. She stared at the telegram for a few minutes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. With her usual pragmatism she squared her shoulders and called the family in to tell them that she was now the matriarch of the family. Susheela Narayanan