Chapter 3 : Happiness Evaporates
As a seven-year-old boy, I stood in front of a small house in Mangalagiri, clutching my mother’s hand and crying. My heart felt unbearably heavy, and my eyes brimmed with tears. A strange emptiness filled me — the kind that even a child can feel but cannot name.
Mangalagiri in the 1960s was not the town you see today. Tiled houses and small huts dotted the streets. Whenever someone mentions Mangalagiri, the first things that come to mind are the Panakala Swamy temple atop the hill and the Narasimha Swamy temple at its foot.
During my childhood, I shared a deep bond with both these sacred places. Perhaps that’s why, whenever I speak about my life’s journey, Mangalagiri always finds its way into my story.
My father, T. V. M. Prasad Rao, served as the Executive Officer (E.O.) of these two temples in the early 1960s. Because of his official status, we were allotted a tiled house in the open space behind the great temple chariot. Our family lived there while my father was the E.O. It was in Mangalagiri that I began my primary schooling — and even learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels.
There are many such memories, which I’ll share later. But for now, let’s return to that young boy, standing before a small house, his heart heavy and his eyes full of tears.
Mother wiped the tears from the boy’s eyes with the end of her saree, murmuring words of comfort. Just then, a cycle rickshaw — known in Mangalagiri as a Goodu rickshaw — arrived. The men began loading luggage from the house onto it.
“I’ll visit you again, sister,” said Pinni.
“Come during the next big festival, when it’s convenient,” Mother replied.
“Alright then… kids, let’s get into the rickshaw.”
The rickshaw started moving slowly. The young eyes followed it, raining tears. A strange emptiness opened within. If only the rickshaw had broken down… if only the journey had stopped, he thought. Then Pinni and the kids would have stayed back. But nothing like that happened. The rickshaw turned a corner and disappeared.
I loved my Kamala Pinni dearly. Of my three aunts, she was the one who visited us most often. Mother and Pinni would wake up at dawn and talk endlessly, their soft voices filling the early morning air. I used to wonder what they found to talk about for so long. Both had learned music, and sometimes, their conversations would turn into impromptu singing sessions — gentle notes echoing through our small tiled home.
It’s curious — when sisters meet, they seem to have an endless stream of things to say. But when a brother and sister meet, the conversation soon runs dry. I didn’t understand this difference then, and I still don’t.
Wouldn’t a young heart feel restless when his beloved aunt and cousins suddenly left after spending a whole summer together?
During my childhood, my father used to tell me some valuable life’s lessons. One such was that men who wear gold ornaments can sell them in times of need. Though I was never drawn to gold, his words stayed with me — and I decided I’d at least wear a ring someday.
Tears of Farewell:
The seven-year-old boy who once cried in front of a small house in Mangalagiri would, years later, find himself facing similar emotional disturbances, in a faraway city. After my graduation, I went to Bombay for my M.Sc., where the scenes of separation and longing returned — though the surroundings and circumstances were entirely different.
During my two-year stay in Bombay (now Mumbai) from 1978 to1980, I often witnessed the poignant scenes of farewell at Victoria Terminus (V.T.) station. Those days, I frequently visited the grand Central Station with my friends and sat for hours on the benches, chatting. Every night at 10 p.m., the Minar Express would depart from Mumbai to Secunderabad, which is a city in my home State. So, most of the travellers would be Telugu speaking people and for that brief while, the air reverberated with the sounds of my mother tongue, and I felt as if I were back home! The emotional goodbyes, the tears, the promises to meet again — they all moved me deeply.
Once, a man trying to say goodbye leapt onto the moving train, fell, and was injured. I felt an ache for him — and a sudden urge to write about what I had witnessed. I didn’t realize it then, but that stirring was the writer within me beginning to awaken. Years later, that same impulse would lead me to write radio plays and newspaper articles.
As the Minar Express pulled away, I would often find tears welling up. I realized that love isn’t only between people — sometimes, it extends to objects, places, and even vehicles. When the train disappeared from our sight, the platform would fall silent, and an emptiness would echo within me. Even after returning to my hostel, the memories of those farewells lingered in my mind.
The Victoria Terminus itself was a wonder to me. The towering spires left me in awe. I began observing them closely and reflecting on them, though I didn’t realize this mental shift at the time. Whenever I encountered a new place or learned something new, I had an urge to explore further. To satisfy this curiosity, I would go to the library, study, and take notes.
Now, with information readily available at our fingertips, access is easy. But in the past, before Google, I had to sift through old papers and books for hours to find more information. I would jot down the collected details on paper, but I never considered submitting them to a newspaper. I didn’t even know how to go about it. There was a section in newspapers for readers’ letters, and I had a strong desire to have at least one letter published. However, I never made a serious attempt. Ironically, this desire remains unfulfilled even now. Yet, I later had the opportunity to write hundreds of articles for newspapers, some of which even appeared on the editorial page.
A Telugu film lyricist, Bhujangaraya Sarma once said:
A desire arises, and if it remains unfulfilled, it burns within. Then something unexpected happens, bringing peace and happiness. We don’t know whether it is a boon or a curse — and that’s the essence of life.
Indeed, life is a chain of such unexpected turns. Looking back, I see how these quiet traits — curiosity, observation, longing — slowly nurtured my writing, though I didn’t realize it at the time.
I’ll explain in the next chapter how reading books shapes our thoughts and helps ideas mature.
Footnotes:
Victoria Terminus (VT):
Built by the British in 1878, exactly a hundred years before I first set foot in Bombay, the station took ten years to complete. Its tall towers once stood as a symbol of British imperialism. I first saw this majestic station with my father when he accompanied me for university admission. The great clock on the tower always reminded me of a labourer working tirelessly, without rest.
Whenever I think of VT’s grandeur, I’m reminded of another station — the one in Madras (now Chennai). I visited it during a science tour in my B.Sc. days. Until then, I had never seen a terminus station, where the railway tracks end abruptly. That’s when I understood why it’s called a “terminus.”
In our village, we never heard the sound of trains. The nearest station was Madhira, across the Munneru River — crossing it used to be an adventure. Today, things are different. A bridge now connects the banks, and autos ply regularly to Madhira station. In those days, even reaching a railway station from Nandigama was a journey in itself.
When the bus stand was finally built in our village during my college years, it felt like a miracle. Until then, buses stopped on the main road in the village centre. When I went to see the new bus stand with my friend, he laughed and said, “This looks like an airport! Maybe planes will start landing here soon!” His innocent humour still echoes in my memory. In the same way, when I first saw Victoria Terminus, I was filled with awe.
Local trains ran continuously from Churchgate Station, carrying a sea of people. I often wondered — did Bombay learn punctuality from its local trains, or did the trains learn it from Bombay? Among the most remarkable were the Dabbawalas, who delivered lunchboxes to offices with clockwork precision. Their discipline and dedication taught me an important secret of success.
Minar / Konark Express:
I saw the Minar Express for the first time in 1978 when I visited Bombay for the first time. It was a blue-coloured train. It ran from Secunderabad to Bombay VT and, upon reaching Secunderabad, continued as the Konark Express to Bhubaneswar via Vijayawada and Visakhapatnam. I found it strange that one train had two numbers and two names. I once travelled on that very train from Bombay to Vijayawada, so its name is etched in my memory. Decades later, when I boarded the Konark Express again on March 2, 2024, those old scenes came flooding back.
Every train carries not just passengers but memories — stories of countless lives intertwined with its journey.
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