The Tunnel

A young boy, Suraj, stands near weathered train tracks disappearing into the inky maw of a dark tunnel entrance deep within a lush, vibrant green jungle. The late afternoon sun casts long, dappled shadows through the dense foliage. The air above the tracks shimmers with intense heat haze, distorting the distant view. A rusty bicycle, its tires slightly deflated, leans against the gnarled roots of a nearby banyan tree. Suraj is barefoot, wearing a faded blue shirt and brown shorts, his face etched with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow.

It was almost lunchtime, and the jungle was very quiet and still. The hot air made the ground look wavy near the train tracks. The train tracks were like two long, black snakes going into a tunnel in the side of a hill.

Suraj was standing near the tracks, waiting for the train that came in the middle of the day. It wasn’t a train station, and he wasn’t going to catch the train. He was waiting to see the big steam train come zooming out of the tunnel.

He had ridden his bike from town and taken a path through the jungle until he got to a small village. He left his bike there and walked over a small hill with bushes and down to where the tunnel came out.

Now he looked up. He heard the train’s loud whistle far away. He couldn’t see the train yet because it was coming from the other side of the hill. But soon, he heard a sound like thunder coming from the tunnel, and he knew the train was on its way.

A majestic steam train, painted in deep black and forest green with ornate gold accents around the wheels and boiler, bursts forth from the suffocating darkness of a tunnel entrance, bellowing steam that momentarily obscures the jungle canopy. Sparks fly from the wheels, illuminating the damp tunnel walls. A small boy, Suraj, wearing simple clothes dusted with dirt, stands to the side on a patch of dry, cracked earth. He’s looking up in wide-eyed awe, his mouth slightly agape, instinctively taking a step back from the thundering machine. The scene is awash in the warm, orange glow of the setting sun filtering through the steam. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow.

A few seconds later, the steam train burst out of the tunnel, chugging and puffing like a green, black, and gold dragon, like a cool monster from Suraj’s dreams. Sparks flew everywhere as it roared and challenged the jungle.

Suraj took a few steps back without thinking. Then the train was gone, leaving only a cloud of smoke floating over the tall trees.

The jungle was quiet again. Nothing moved. Suraj stopped watching the smoke and started walking along the tracks toward the tunnel.

Suraj, small and vulnerable, walks alone into the oppressive darkness of a train tunnel, his back to the viewer. The tunnel walls are slick with moisture, reflecting the limited light in oily patches. Water drips from the arched ceiling. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and coal dust. A single, almost blinding circle of sunlight is visible at the tunnel’s far end, promising escape. His shoulders are slumped slightly, conveying a sense of determined loneliness. The color palette is muted and cool, emphasizing the claustrophobia and uncertainty. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow.

The tunnel got darker as he walked further in. After about twenty steps, it was completely black. Suraj had to turn around and look back at the opening to make sure there was still sunlight outside. Ahead of him, the other end of the tunnel was just a small circle of light.

The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be hours before another train came. Until then, it belonged to the jungle again.

Suraj didn’t stop because there was nothing to do or see in the tunnel. He just wanted to walk through it to know what the inside of a tunnel was like. The walls were wet and kind of sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scurried between the tracks.

Suraj stands at the opposite end of the tunnel, emerging into the blinding brightness of the full mid-day sun, shielding his eyes with a dirt-streaked hand. He squints, trying to adjust to the light after the oppressive darkness. On the steep, overgrown hillside to his left, a fleeting glimpse of an orange and gold leopard tail, adorned with black rosettes, disappears silently into the dense trees. The air is thick with the scent of wildflowers. The sunlight highlights the fine hairs on his arms. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, vibrant sun-drenched color palette.

Coming out of the darkness into the bright sunlight, Suraj was blinded for a moment. He put his hand up to block the sun and looked up at the hillside covered with trees. He thought he saw something moving between the trees.

It was just a flash of orange and gold, and a long, swishy tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.

A small, rustic house constructed of mud bricks and weathered wood, its thatched roof slightly askew, stands peacefully beside the train tracks. Vibrant orange and yellow marigolds explode with color in front of the doorway, overflowing from cracked clay pots. Sunder Singh, the watchman, an elderly man with kind eyes and a weathered face etched with wrinkles, stands in the doorway, his white mustache neatly trimmed. He is smiling warmly at Suraj, a welcoming and comforting gesture. A faded blue lungi is wrapped around his waist. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, emphasizing the warmth and tranquility of the scene.

About fifty feet from the tunnel entrance was the watchman’s small house. Orange flowers grew in front of the house, and there was a small garden in the back where he grew vegetables. The watchman’s job was to check the tunnel and make sure it was clear of anything that could cause problems. Every day, before the train came, he would walk through the whole tunnel. If everything was okay, he would go back to his house and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk up the tracks and wave a red flag so the train driver would slow down. At night, the watchman would light an oil lamp and check the tunnel again. Of course, he couldn’t stop the train if there was a porcupine on the tracks. But if there was any danger to the train, he’d go up the tracks and wave his lamp at the train. If everything was fine, he’d hang his lamp by the door of his house and go to sleep.

He was just getting ready for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy coming out of the tunnel. He waited until Suraj was close and then said, ‘Welcome, welcome! I don’t get visitors very often. Sit down for a bit and tell me why you were looking at my tunnel.’

‘Is it your tunnel?’ Suraj asked.

‘It is,’ said the watchman. ‘It’s really my tunnel because nobody else wants it. I just let the government use it.’

Suraj sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then, after it left, I thought I’d walk through the tunnel.’

‘And what did you find in there?’

‘Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal up on the hill, but I’m not sure. It ran away quickly.’

‘It was a leopard you saw,’ said the watchman. ‘My leopard.’

‘Do you own a leopard too?’

‘I do.’

‘And do you let the government use it?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘No, it’s a leopard that keeps to itself. It comes to this area for a few days every month.’

‘Have you been here a long time?’ Suraj asked.

‘Many years. My name is Sunder Singh.’

‘My name’s Suraj.’

‘There’s one train during the day and another at night. Have you seen the night train come through the tunnel?’

‘No. What time does it come?’

‘Around nine o’clock, if it’s on time. You can come and sit here with me if you want. And after it goes, I’ll take you home.’

‘I’ll ask my parents,’ said Suraj. ‘Will it be safe?’

‘Of course. It’s safer in the jungle than in town. Nothing happens to me out here, but last month when I went to town, a bus almost ran me over!’

Sunder Singh yawned and stretched out on the bed. ‘And now I’m going to take a nap, my friend. It’s too hot to be running around in the afternoon.’

‘Everyone takes naps in the afternoon,’ Suraj complained. ‘My dad lies down as soon as he finishes lunch.’

‘Well, the animals also rest when it’s hot. Only kids can’t or won’t rest.’

Sunder Singh put a big banana leaf over his face to keep the flies away and was soon snoring softly. Suraj stood up, looking up and down the train tracks. Then he started walking back to the village.

Inside the watchman’s small, dimly lit house, Sunder Singh and Suraj are sitting cross-legged on a worn, woven bed. They are sharing a pot of sweet, milky tea. An old, flickering oil lamp, resting on a small wooden table, casts a warm, golden glow on their faces, highlighting their shared smiles. A dented tin kettle sits on a small, rusty stove in the corner, emitting a faint whistle. The walls are adorned with faded posters of Hindu deities. A rough, patched blanket is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, focusing on the intimate and cozy atmosphere.

The next evening, as the bats flew silently out of the trees, Suraj went to the watchman’s house.

It had been a long, hot day, but now the ground was getting cooler, and a light breeze was blowing through the trees. It smelled like mango flowers, which meant rain was coming.

Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his little garden, and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on a small stove.

‘I’m making tea,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like a hot cup of tea while waiting for a train.’

They drank their tea, listening to the birds chirping. As the sun went down, most of the birds became quiet.

Sunder Singh lit his oil lamp and said it was time for him to check the tunnel. He walked toward the tunnel while Suraj sat on the bed, drinking his tea. In the dark, the trees seemed to get closer. And the sounds of the forest at night filled the air - the loud bark of a deer, the cry of a fox, and the strange ’tonk-tonk’ sound of a nightjar. There were some sounds that Suraj didn’t recognize – sounds from the trees, like creaks and whispers, as if the trees were coming alive, stretching their branches in the dark, and moving their leaves like fingers.

Sunder Singh, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a lit oil lamp held high in his left hand, cautiously enters the forbidding darkness of the train tunnel. He carries a heavy, well-worn axe in his right hand, its blade glinting faintly in the lamplight. Suraj, his young face etched with worry and apprehension, follows close behind, clinging to the back of Sunder Singh’s dhoti. The tunnel walls drip with moisture, reflecting the lamplight in distorted patterns. The air is heavy with the smell of damp earth and the distant echo of dripping water. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, creating a sense of suspense and uncertainty.

Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, adjusting his lamp. The night sounds were normal to him, so he didn’t think much about them. But something else – a quiet footstep and the sound of leaves rustling – made him stop and listen carefully, looking into the darkness. Then, humming to himself, he went back to where Suraj was waiting.

There were ten more minutes until the night train arrived.

As Sunder Singh sat down next to Suraj, they both heard a new sound - a steady sawing sound, as if someone was cutting a tree branch.

‘What’s that?’ whispered Suraj.

‘It’s the leopard,’ said Sunder Singh.

‘I think it’s in the tunnel.’

‘The train will be here soon,’ Suraj reminded him.

‘Yes, my friend. And if we don’t get the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over and killed. I can’t let that happen.’

‘But won’t it attack us if we try to get it out?’ Suraj asked, starting to worry like the watchman.

‘Not this leopard. It knows me well. We’ve seen each other many times. It likes goats and stray dogs, but it won’t hurt us. But I’ll still take my axe with me. You stay here, Suraj.’

‘No, I’m going with you. It’s better than sitting here alone in the dark!’

‘Alright, but stay close behind me. And remember, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

Holding his lamp up high, Sunder Singh walked into the tunnel, shouting as loud as he could to scare the animal away. Suraj followed close behind, but he couldn’t shout. His throat was too dry.

A magnificent leopard, its sleek orange coat patterned with black rosettes, crouches low between the cold, steel train tracks inside the tunnel. Its eyes glow with an eerie green light, reflecting the lamplight. Sunder Singh, his face a mask of determination and fear, holds the lamp aloft and brandishes his axe. Suraj, his eyes wide with terror, clings to Sunder Singh’s leg, shouting in a high-pitched voice. The flickering lamplight casts long, dancing shadows on the damp tunnel walls, amplifying the drama and danger of the moment. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, focusing on the raw emotion and primal fear.

They had only gone about twenty steps into the tunnel when the light from the lamp shined on the leopard. It was crouching between the tracks, only fifteen feet away from them. It wasn’t a very big leopard, but it looked strong and flexible. It bared its teeth, growled, and lowered itself to the ground, twitching its tail.

Suraj and Sunder Singh shouted at the same time. Their voices echoed through the tunnel. And the leopard, not sure how many scary humans were in the tunnel with him, quickly turned and disappeared into the darkness.

To make sure it was gone, Sunder Singh and Suraj walked the whole length of the tunnel. When they returned to the entrance, the tracks were starting to rumble. They knew the train was coming.

Suraj put his hand on the tracks and felt them shaking. He heard the train coming closer. Then the train came around the corner, hissing, throwing sparks into the darkness, and challenging the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the tracks. It charged straight at the tunnel and into it, thundering past Suraj like the cool dragon from his dreams.

And when it was gone, the silence returned, and the forest seemed to breathe and come alive again. Only the tracks were still shaking from the train.

The night train, a long serpent of steel and light, rushes past the watchman’s house, its windows glowing warmly against the inky blackness of the night. The watchman’s lamp, hanging on a hook outside his door, shines brightly, a beacon of safety in the darkness. Suraj, his small face pressed against the train window, looks out, waving goodbye with a sad smile. The rhythmic clatter of the train fades into the distance. Fireflies twinkle in the nearby jungle. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, capturing the fleeting moment and the bittersweet farewell.

And they shook from the same train almost a week later when Suraj and his dad were riding in it.

Suraj’s dad was writing in a notebook, doing his work. Suraj sat by an open window, staring out at the darkness. His dad was going to Delhi for work and had decided to take the boy with him. (‘I don’t know where he goes most of the time,’ he’d complained. ‘I think it’s time he learned something about my business.’)

The night train rushed through the forest with hundreds of people. Tiny lights came and went as they passed small villages on the edge of the jungle.

Suraj heard the rumble as the train went over a small bridge. It was too dark to see the house near the tracks, but he knew they were getting close to the tunnel. He looked out into the night, and then, just as the train blew its whistle, Suraj saw the lamp.

He couldn’t see Sunder Singh, but he saw the lamp, and he knew his friend was out there.

The train went into the tunnel and out again. It left the jungle behind and sped across the wide open plains. Suraj stared out at the darkness, thinking about the quiet spot in the forest and the watchman with the lamp who would always be like a firefly for those traveling thousands of miles, lighting up the darkness for trains and leopards.

Suraj sits by a train window at night, gazing out at the passing darkness. The blurred landscape is punctuated by occasional flickering lights from distant villages. His face is pensive, lost in thought. His father, a kind-faced man with tired eyes and wire-rimmed glasses, sits beside him, absorbed in writing in a leather-bound notebook. The faint, silvery glow of the moon, visible through the window, illuminates their faces, creating a sense of quiet intimacy and shared understanding. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulls them into a peaceful stillness. Watercolor style, soft blending, natural flow, emphasizing the bond between father and son and the mystery of the night journey.

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The Two Frogs

The Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal

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