“6:00 am at Bessy Sands”,
the orange fireball of sunrise burst out from the ocean, painting the night sky with the hues of amber and white, those clouds started stretching their arms and tinted in saffron with the morning light, and that early morning chill breeze began to swallow the sun’s heat, those sun rays even drew sparkles and stars in the blue ocean’s surface, the ocean’s playful waves danced in synchrony and they even started to race towards the shore, there is always something about this morning bliss, Siddharth was a daily visitor to this natures art gallery, it brings out something in him, sometimes he writes beautiful poems, sometimes the beauty of the nature overtook the artist and he just stares and listens to the waves,
This is just one of those mornings,
Siddharth sat on his usual spot — a stone bench, just far enough from the tide. He pulled his hoodie tighter against the salty breeze as it tangled his hair. The sand beneath him was cool, almost damp, and the early sunlight glinted off his brown skin like a whisper of gold.
He wasn't alone; joggers had arrived and were stretching, roadside shops were open, and a bunch of crows started to invade the beach, A chai vendor he’d come to recognize — “Anna” to everyone, real name unknown —. He smiled when he saw Siddharth, raising two fingers in question. Siddharth nodded with a grin: “Double strong, Half sugar.”Anna always made it right. He handed Siddharth the cup with a knowing smile. “Big thinking face today.” He teased. Siddharth chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”……anna smiled and moved.
Siddharth’s phone buzzed .. a notification from“Fantastic FOUR” — their group chat.
Bala: “Hey guys today I won't come “He smirked at the message, sipped his tea, and was lukewarm now, but he didn’t mind. He pulled out a pen and tried to write again. Two words. Scratch. Rewrite. Three more. Pause. His phone rang, breaking the rhythm."Subbu, I have to leave early for work, da," Your father is coming with me. We’re locking up. The key is under the mat." his mother’s voice crackled from the other end."Ha, okay ma. Bye," Siddharth replied, pushing his glasses back up and sighing.Yes ..Subbu. That how his mother calls him Subramanian. That was his name. His official, roll-call, ration-card name.A name that carried weight—of family, tradition, temple visits, and moral science lectures. A name he had grown up with, grown tired of, grown out of.He hated it.Not because it was old-fashioned, but because it never felt like him. He wasn't that person—not anymore.So he changed it to Siddharth.. It felt lighter, freer. Like someone who wrote poetry in the margins of books, who could vanish into a beach morning without needing to explain himself. But back home in Guindy, he was still Subbu. Always Subbu.
A few scribbles later, it was 8:00 am, he stood up and decided to go home, walked out the beach, and took his two-wheeler home. Back home — Guindy,The house smelled of jasmine, turmeric, and vegetables. A quiet apartment, two floors up, with grilled windows. His mother had already left for school. A math teacher by profession, but a disciplinarian by blood. His father’s leather bag was missing from the hook — meaning he had gone with her,
The sticky note on the fridge read: “Idly in the hot box. Coconut chutney. Don’t skip breakfast. – Amma.”He smiled. She never said “Take care” or “I love you.”But she cooked for him like love was the fifth ingredient. He went directly to the kitchen and boiled water for his second cup of tea. It hissed and bubbled slowly, reluctantly. It was always like The kettle didn’t whistle until threatened. But these details, despite their imperfection, were where he felt most himself. After a quick breakfast and a lukewarm bath, he dressed in his usual — black shirt, and black pants.He worked as an editor at a small magazine—one of those that paid in compliments and filtered coffee but gave him room to breathe. His assignments ranged from profiles of underappreciated artists to stories on dying Tamil scripts. Sometimes he ghostwrote for influencers who thought “Sangam” was a handbag brand.But his real dream?Journalism. Not the kind that chased hashtags or press passes, but the kind that restored forgotten voices—ancient Tamil poetry, hidden histories. He wanted to revive them, not just translate, but retell them for this restless world. He spent weekends in dusty libraries, speaking with scholars, scribbling down phrases that tasted like old songs on his tongue.Before stepping out, he looked in the mirror and adjusted his hair He pressed his forehead to the mirror for a moment, then stepped away.At 9:00 a.m Guindy Metro station’s platform buzzed like it always did. Voices overlapping. Train announcements echo into one another. Siddharth stood at his usual spot on the metro platform. Those little rituals and small details he follows define him,9:10 a.m. Metro, The train screeched in., He stepped in and made his way toward the second pole near the right-side window. And there they were.
Aravind. Madhu. Bala…the other three from the “Fantastic Four” groupAlways the same three faces, always the same banter. Madhu had a tote bag slung over one shoulder, already halfway through a rant about bridal photographers and why all of them were “either heartbreakingly expensive or heartbreakingly bad.”Arvind leaned against the pole, fake yawning. “ I’ve been on Shaadi.com since 2019 and all I’ve gotten are astrologers and aunties.”Siddharth chuckled, settling beside them.“Your bio says ‘film buff, gym rat, spiritual’ — that’s three lies, Arvind.”Madhu jumped in, “I told him to change it to ‘excellent cook and a good listener.’”“And did he?” Siddharth asked. “No,” Madhu deadpanned. “He added ‘dog lover’ even though he screams when street dogs bark.”As the train rocked gently, laughter filled the space between them. They weren’t colleagues. They weren’t school friends either. Despite their differences, they’d be more than acquaintances.
They were just… metro friends. The kind you meet every day at 9:00 a.m. and slowly share your life with — piece by piece — until they become more than friends. They became constants. Madhu once joked, “We’re more committed to this metro compartment than we are to any romantic relationship.” Aravind always carried chewing gum, and Bala always borrowed it. Madhu always complained about wedding planning, and Siddharth always secretly noted down her dialogues, half-convinced they’d end up in one of his essays someday. But today — amidst the laughter, Siddharth felt something unfamiliar creeping in.
He was happy. That wasn’t new.But he was also… aware.A few feet away, behind the reflection of the window, he felt something.A gaze.He didn’t turn right away. But a chill moved up his spine — not fear, just… a shift. Like when you realize someone is standing behind you even before they speak.He kept laughing. Talking. Playing along with Aravind’s newest conspiracy theory about IPL auctions being rigged. But there was a part of him — still and searching — trying to name that feeling.He didn’t look back.But he knew.Someone was watching.The metro announcement buzzed “Meenambakkam station arrived “The train screeched to its stop.The group shuffled out, Madhu still rambling about lehenga colors.Siddharth took one last glance at the window reflection — a blur of people, movement, wind.And then the doors shut behind him.he walked towards the elevator And then the elevator doors opened, and he moved in Didn’t turn.Didn’t check.If someone was following…They’d have to keep up. He had a day to write. Stories to find. Words to wrestle.
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