A distant relative’s wedding reception is in full swing at the Vizcaya Museum & Gardens in Miami, Florida. What a rattle when neighbors and relatives get together! 

As I stood surveying the size and beauty of the museum, the host appeared from nowhere and patted me on the shoulder and asked, “What’s wrong?  Come to the bar… have a drink and sit there.” 

If there was something that I didn’t want to do at any wedding was never to drink… I mean never to get drunk. That decision applied here too.

“Oh… no, I stopped drinking. I will sit somewhere here,” I said timidly.

Suspecting that I was trying to avoid him or I was withdrawing into my own inner self, the man just smirked at me and walked away. 

While standing there aloof and showing no particular interest in the rumpus, a brunette draped in a glittering designer sari and a matching Mona Lisa smile glided towards me and burst out laughing:

“Wow! … who is this? … Do you remember me? This face of mine?”

I had learned to forget and forgive many things, but that face seemed like a new face. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember that face.

“No… Who?” I replied as if acknowledging my own memory loss. 

“Did you go to Kerala in 2012?” the girl had no intention of leaving me alone.

“… Hmmm… I did.  Why?” I looked around and answered nonchalantly.  

“Do you remember there was a girl sitting next to you in the Kanyakumari Express from Coimbatore?”

Suddenly my memory box burst open.

“Sharmila? Sharmila Thomas! My God! You look so different!,” I had almost jumped up and down with excitement .

“Chackochan, why did you come alone?” I did not answer. How can one who lives alone come but alone?

“Chackochan just sit there, I will come back in a minute.” After saying that, Sharmila disappeared into the crowd.

I wondered… how did she get here? I looked around to see if there were any acquaintances. I didn’t see anyone.

December 15, 2012

It was just coincidental that I met the girl who boarded the train with me at Coimbatore into a reserved compartment. It is very common for passengers to get into a reserved compartment without having reserved seats. I barely noticed her sitting next to me by the window.

On reaching Palakkad, a traveling ticket examiner (TTE) came in and started issuing tickets to those who didn’t reserve their seats. While the TTE wrote me the reservation ticket, I saw the girl looking here and there in panic.

I looked at her suspiciously and asked what was the matter. The girl didn’t answer.

The TTE approached her and issued her a Rs 50 ticket. She rummaged through her bag several times but couldn’t come up with the full amount and looked helplessly at the TTE.  I saved her from further embarrassment by paying for her ticket. Poor girl. She did not say a word but kept looking outside. I wanted to talk to her but somehow I didn’t.

At Kottayam, she approached me with folded hands and said, “I will never forget the kindness you have shown Sir! May I have your phone number, please?”

“It’s okay,” I comforted her. “It has happened to me too.”

She sat down and took a deep breath. 

“My name is Sharmila. Sharmila Jacob. My house is in Vazhapalli, Changanacherry.”

“I am Chacko… Chacko Tharakan… going to visit a relative in Thiruvalla. Nice to meet you Sharmila. Let us hope we will meet again… sometime…somewhere… OK?”

Realizing that I was not going to continue talking, Sharmila said: “Of course!”

She took my phone number as she was about to leave and said: “God bless you Sir.”

We Met Again Somehow

Sharmila came back with two large Scotch and roasted cashews in a silver tray and sat opposite me. Raising her glass, she said, “Cheers!” Everyone sitting nearby looked at us.

“Take it Chackochan. This is not a regular thing. Right?” Sharmila seemed to be in good mood.

“I don’t drink,” I said casually. Or if I drink, why should she know about it.

When Sharmila got off the train that day, I thought of going with her. But for some reason I didn’t. She did not call me at the phone number I gave her. Sharmila has completely changed. Well, why should I think about it now?

“What are you thinking Chackochan?” Sharmila’s question disrupted my thoughts.

“Ha… if Sharmila insists, how can I say no? Cheers!” I raised my glass enthusiastically.

“Chackochan… I haven’t introduced you to my husband. Come on, let’s go to the Bar.”

Some of those who were sitting nearby were listening to our conversation.
One of them interjected: “Do you know how many she had already?”

“Oh… she might have had just one or two drinks.”

“Man… I’m talking about her past husbands. This is her fourth one!”

“What does that have to do with you?!” Somehow the guy was not amused at all by his friend’s accusation.

“A lot… just watch the drama, before you get pissed!” retorted the man who was annoyed already.

Sharmila dragged me halfway toward the bar when she suddenly stopped, turned, and stared at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.

“Do you know,” she said, swirling the ice in her glass, “I always wondered what would’ve happened if you had walked off that train with me?”

Before I could answer, her husband appeared — a tall, athletic man who looked mildly irritated.

“There you are,” he said. “They’re calling us for the couple’s dance.”

“Oh come on, not that boring thing again,” she groaned, then whispered to me, “See… this is why people switch husbands.”

Her husband raised an eyebrow. “You’re not making Chacko think you’re serious… are you?”

Sharmila only laughed and walked away with him, leaving me unsure whether she had been joking, flirting, or testing my memory.

Either way, the girl I met on the Kanyakumari Express had grown into an enigma wrapped in a designer sari… and I realized some train journeys are never really over.

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Change is an inevitable part of life, shaping who we are and where we are headed. Throughout our journeys, we encounter various transformations—some planned and welcomed, while others come unexpectedly, often challenging us in ways we never imagined.