My childhood is littered with memories of getting on an overnight train set to depart after 9 pm. Dad would make sure all the luggage was loaded on and tucked away under the berths in the most careful, space-efficient way. Mamma would make sure my sister and I were in our seats.
Once we got settled, we’d sit and chat for a bit—about sweet little nothings and everything, as is the case with my family. Soon, it would be lights out, and everyone would sleep as comfortably as one can on the Indian Railways.
In the morning, we’d be woken up by our parents and, on the occasions I had a lower berth, I’d draw open the curtains. Outside the window was a light fog and dew-encrusted morning, with expansive paddy fields lined with coconut trees and clear water snaking its way through it.
In those moments, the earth reclaims me, telling my heart what it already knows—I am home.
The water she first stepped into minutes ago is long gone and yet it is here, past and present and future inexorably coupled, like time made incarnate. This is the covenant of water: that they’re all linked inescapably by their acts of commission and omission, and no one stands alone.
― Abraham Verghese, The Covenant of water
The Big Smokey Apple 