Station Announcement
"Passengers returning from distance, please mind the silence between arrivals. The heart may take longer to clear customs."
The call came at dawn.A supervisor's voice, dry as sand, said the words Manoj had known were coming: "Your contract will not be renewed."
He sat up in his dormitory bunk, staring at the shadow of his suitcase under the bed — the same blue one he had carried from Kerala eighteen years ago. Dust coated the handle; the tag still read "Doha International."He ran a thumb along the plastic seam.So this was how an exile ended — not with a ticket home, but a phone call before sunrise.
Outside, the compound hummed with air conditioners and the far-off clang of early work shifts.Manoj leaned on the window grill and watched the desert light grow pale and hard, like metal heating without flame.He'd always believed he'd return home triumphant, carrying something shiny: success, savings, proof. Instead, he had a small pile of remittance receipts and a half-paid loan.
He reached for his phone and dialed home.
"Hello?" His wife's voice was soft but wary."Radha. It's done. Contract finished."A pause, then: "You'll come back now?""Yes."Another silence — not joy, not sorrow, just the quiet arithmetic of adaptation."Alright. I'll tell Appu. Don't forget to bring the medicine for Amma's knees.""I won't."
When the line clicked dead, he felt oddly relieved. No pleading, no drama. Just logistics — the language of long marriages and long absences.
Two weeks later, the plane descended into Kochi, slicing through clouds fat with monsoon.Rain hit the tarmac like applause.Manoj closed his eyes. Even the humidity smelled familiar — sweat, spice, home.
He waited by the conveyor belt as suitcases thudded past. Around him, families hugged, children waved placards. No one waited for him.He retrieved his faded bag and stepped outside into the commotion.
A taxi driver approached. "Where to, chetta?""Palakkad.""Long ride. Rain all the way.""Good," Manoj said. "Let it rain."
The road home wound through green hills, each turn reopening a drawer of memory — the toddy shop near the river bend, the temple pond, the bus stop where he'd once promised Radha he'd return soon.
When he reached the town, the streets were narrower than he remembered, the buildings taller. A billboard for a luxury housing project blocked the view of the church spire.He smiled bitterly; progress always had good posture.
His house sat at the end of a lane lined with areca palms. The paint had peeled; moss grew on the steps.Radha opened the door, older and thinner, her hair streaked with silver."You're soaked," she said."I missed the rain."She nodded. "Tea?""Yes, please."
Inside, everything was familiar yet foreign — the ticking wall clock, the photograph of their son in his engineering college uniform, the faint smell of damp wood.
Appu arrived in the evening, taller than Manoj remembered, his voice half-broken, his eyes cautious."Appa.""Hmm."They shook hands awkwardly before remembering they were family.
Dinner was quiet. The rain drummed above them, keeping the conversation polite.
In the days that followed, Manoj wandered the town, trying to reattach himself to it.He visited the old mechanic's shed he had apprenticed in as a boy. It was now a bakery. The air smelled of bread where grease once ruled.He sat on a bench near the bus stand and listened to rain hitting tin roofs.
A group of schoolboys repaired their bicycles nearby, using mismatched tools with surprising competence. One of them looked up and said, "Uncle, you used to work abroad?""Yes.""You know engines?""A little."
He knelt beside them, guiding a wrench, tightening a bolt. The boys watched his hands as if he were performing a small miracle.When the chain slipped back into place and the wheel spun true, they cheered.
It was the first applause he'd heard in years.
That evening, he found an old toolbox in the storeroom — rusty, half empty. He cleaned it, oiled the hinges, lined the inside with newspaper.
Next morning, he set it near the gate with a cardboard sign:
Tool Library – Borrow, Repair, Return. No fees.
At first, no one came. Then the bicycle boys arrived, then a carpenter, then a mason looking for a level. By the end of the week, his veranda was a cluttered classroom.He showed them how to read gauges, how to listen for faulty bearings, how patience was the best lubricant.
Word spread. People began calling him Manoj mashu.
One afternoon, as he fixed a fan motor, a stranger arrived — a woman with a camera and rain still on her hair."Are you the Tool Library man?" she asked.He nodded."I'm writing about flood recovery work. Someone said you help people rebuild their houses.""Only small help," he said.She smiled. "That's usually the right size."
Her name was Ananya. She took a few photos, careful, quiet. He liked that she didn't direct him like the other journalists.When she left, she said, "You remind me of a teacher I met once. He said small repairs make big returns."
After she'd gone, Manoj looked at the rows of borrowed tools and realised how true that sounded.
Months slipped by. The Tool Library grew into a workshop. Local shops donated spare parts. Appu began volunteering on weekends, teaching coding to the younger boys while Manoj taught them how to fix motors.
Sometimes, late at night, when the rain was steady, he would think of the desert — the white light, the noise of air conditioners, the endless sameness — and he would thank the storm that had brought him back.
He kept his old residency card in a drawer, not as a relic of pride, but as a reminder that even the longest contracts eventually expire.But belonging, if nurtured, could renew itself forever.
One evening, a train whistle echoed from the valley.He stepped outside and saw the distant line of light snaking through the rain.The sound made him smile.Maybe all journeys, he thought, begin as returns.
He turned off the porch light, the smell of machine oil lingering on his hands, and went inside to prepare tomorrow's lesson:Topic – The Uses of Rust.