Vanilla Desires

The death kiss

The sky was painted in hues of orange and red, bringing an illusion of warmth to the cold day. The handful of passengers huddled closer together, their frayed clothing a testament to their humble origins.

They kept looking fretfully at the huge wall clock. The only train for the day was already an hour late. It was possible that it may not even arrive.

An air of desolation hung over the dilapidated station. Its dull grey walls were beaten by age and smeared with violence, open to the vast sky. Besides a ticketing box and stray benches, there was nothing more to speak of about Ramgarh's only station. Ramgarh, on the other hand, was a village bustling with untold stories.

Nestled within lush green forests and mountains, it had once been beautifully quaint with brick hutments and dirt streets. Its inhabitants had once slept peacefully, exhausted after an honest day's work in the fields or labour in tiny shops.

They had cohabited for centuries; the divide of caste and religion having reached its borders only in recent times. Ramgarh's namesakes had sprung up in all corners of India, but this village was too insignificant to mark on most maps. It didn't exist for public knowledge, was devoid of politics and forgotten by history. A reason that when it burned, no one heard, and no one cared.

A woman huddled nearby, her kohl-lined eyes peeking out from a heavy maroon shawl. She glanced longingly towards the tracks, waiting for a glimpse of the engine.

She shivered, rubbing her hands together for warmth. It would be nightfall soon, and the cold was likely to be merciless. Her simple black cotton kurti pyjama was no protection against the elements.

"Did you hear," she heard a man whisper. "They found Shyamlal's hiding spot this morning and slaughtered everyone as a warning." She looked back to see a bedraggled family of four – parents and two small children. It was the potter's family. Abdul, the potter, saw her looking and pursed his lips in suspicion.

She looked away, hugging herself and exhaling a foggy breath. Shyamlal had owned the kirana shop she had visited since she was a child. He had snuck her many an orange candy, his dark eyes twinkling merrily. Knowing that he was dead along with his family did little to stir her numb heart.

She stared with hardened eyes at the smoke billowing in the distance. The faint whistle of the approaching train came to her ears. She shifted as people around her rose to their feet in anticipation. Like her, they all wanted to leave the charred remains of their once beloved village behind.

They knew that the riots would eventually wipe away their existence if they stayed.

She clutched her shawl closer to her face as the train slowed to a stop. "What is your name, girl?" the plump ticket collector droned as she climbed up the compartment.

"Imlie," she spoke softly. "Imlie Pandit."

He wrote down her name and pocketed the money, looking toward the next person. She walked away quickly, her hands clammy with fear. If the rioters caught them here... If they burned this train like they had destroyed their village...She slipped into an empty cabin, trying to shake her forbidding thoughts.

There were just two wooden planks painted in blue, placed across from one another. She sat on the left, shivering at the cold wind coming in through the broken windows. Drawing up her knees to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees. The platform was now empty, save for the evening fog descending on the surroundings. It gave the old station a sinister appearance, as if it knew that such escapes were soon going to be a rarity.