Nurungukal...contd,,,

   The sun had not come up when I stepped down from the train at Kutipuram station.I was still drowsy. The call of the station staff , kutipuram, kutipuram had woken me. As usual I looked around for my porter friend Muhamed and headed towards the exit. There was a tap on my shoulder and there he was scratching his head.I handed over the bag and requested to reserve a seat in the bus to Ponani. That was the practise ever since I met him. He was the favourite of almost all the elite families of Ponani, Anakara,Kumaranalur etc to have a liaison with Kutipuram station. It was cute to watch him moving in brisk steps in his red shirt and khaki shorts and of course a kerchief tied on the head in a typical and exclusive style of Malabar. The scene of the porters balancing very heavy trunk box and a hold all [typical travel kit of those days] on their head and depositing  them at the bottom of the seats is one of olden days. On many an occasion he had helped to purchase a ticket, when there was heavy rush of passengers from Guruvayur. Every time I met him he would offer a tea which I used to gracefully deny.

     On the main road a bus going to Ponani was parked. The cleaner of the bus [kili] was standing behind and shouting Ponani, Ponani, with a whistle on the fore finger and occasionally pretending to give the signal to start. The driver of the vehicle was going on raising the accelerator making bur bur sound to give an indication that he will dart at any moment. This process will go on and on till the bus is almost full with passengers. The bus belonged to Murugan Transport, and naturally there used to be a small photo of vel murugan above the driver’s seat decorated by a jasmine garland and the incense from a popular agarbathi prevailed.

        Muhamed had already reserved a seat for me and was waiting. As a token of respect he had removed the towel form the head and was holding it in between his left hand and chest. I enquired about his welfare and paid a hand full of notes which he hesitantly accepted. The bus was about to move and I jumped in. After occupying my seat I turned back to bid farewell to Muhamed. But he had already left. Perhaps to serve his next customer. That was the last time I met him. Much later I came to know that he was no more to take care of his favourite patrons. I could not find a substitute there after.

   The bus after making many more false attempts of rolling, finally moved towards Ponani. As it crossed the bridge I peeped out to enjoy the flow of water in Nila and the fluttering of the morning rays on the little waves..contd..