Shape of the Sun

Eighteen years ago

Chandigarh. Eighteen years ago.

Ten-year-old Rajkumar had been quite innocent, a quiet kid unlike the adult he became. 

At ten, he couldn't envision what that looked like. If he had, he'd have run back into a compartment, not caring that it was the wrong one.

He couldn't. And so, he didn't.

Ten-year-old Rajkumar could only stare wide-eyed at the moving train that he had been part of some thirty minutes ago, a mix of panic and incredulity at the situation, that a supposedly short trip to the restroom had cost him this.

It's cold, was his first thought. He drew his jacket that Amma had gotten him on her trip to Hungary last year. It was expensive, he could tell. He could pawn it for some cash if need be.

They always did that in the movies.

As he stiffly walked over to the conductor's station, he remembered his parents. They'd be upset. He thought back to Priyanka, his sister. She'd even be more upset.

There was no one else at home who'd call her Priyanka. She hated the diminutive Choti, iterating that it made her feel younger when she was actually the older one, a reasoning that Rajkumar found hard to refute.

She'd feel upset, he thought as he finally reached the counter, the last on the line, and placed small, delicate hands on it where the edge leveled with his neck at the place where it met with his clavicle - and barely.

She'd feel upset even though she had not been on speaking terms with him at the moment. Priyanka had refused to pick up any conversation that he initiated on the first train here. She was still mad at him for the matter with Papaji.

Yet, Rajkumar was sure she wouldn't be anymore when she couldn't find him on the train. 

He felt a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest and rubbed atop it with his left hand, raised for that sole purpose, not wanting the warmth to escape, replaced by the bits of panic seeping in that he wanted to keep out forever. His right hand was now grasping the counter, paling from all that pressure.

"Excuse me, sir." Rajkumar never realized how soft his voice was until then, nothing like his father's boombox.

But perhaps it was too soft, so that the muscular man seated out front didn't hear him, still acutely focused on reading the newspaper.

He tried again, a little louder this time.

"Excuse me, sir?"

This time around, the newspaper was placed down, giving way to an angular face with sharp eyebrows that anyone, Rajkumar included, could tell belonged to a woman. She didn't look very pleased, her eyes glaring at him, a sharp fierceness in them.

The boy didn't look back, heart thumping so hard in a panic, hands hastily reaching for his pocket, bringing the blue-bordered train ticket within and placing it on the counter. Rajkumar proceeded to bow incessantly, voice stuck in his throat, unable to come out, uneasy at the current event.

He didn't mean to come across as rude and now, he had no idea what this could mean.

As the cold seeped into his winter jacket, causing his slender frame to tremble, the dust it brought along stung his eyes so that they heated up and tears spilled from them across his cheeks and onto the concrete pavement. Whether they were truly the cause of those tears, even he didn't know.

Rajkumar hurriedly wiped with both hands, not wanting to upset the ticketing lady any further. But they wouldn't stop. They still kept coming back. They kept coming back because he was afraid and wanted to go home. He wouldn't make a fuss over toys with Priyanka anymore. He'd be a better brother.