Chapter Nine
If you hear him playing
in the lush groves where cows graze
bring the droplets from his flute’s mouth
anoint my face, revive me
Nacciyar Thiumozhi 13:5
The train to Srivilliputtur was running late. ‘Forty-five minutes only,’ the lady at Srirangam’s ticket counter said with one of those unconvincing yes-no nods. None of the other passengers appeared particularly perturbed. I paced the platform feeling like a puppet dangled on strings at the whim of some impish god.
One and a half hours. The sun rose and rose, uncharacteristically hot for Margazhi. Two hours. I resorted to the fizz of a GoldiSpot orangeade and scanned the list of stations my train, when it eventually arrived, would then be passing through. It was a passenger service, the opposite of express, and the only
