Station Announcement
"Attention passengers: The 14:05 express to Ambition is now boarding. Please keep all humility close at hand."
The glass doors at Kochi International opened with a sigh, releasing a tide of humidity that hit Rohit Menon like a wet slap.After years in London's clean chill, the Kerala air felt indecently alive — a mix of salt, diesel, jasmine, and memory.He gripped his portfolio tube and stepped into the chaos of arrivals.
Outside, monsoon clouds were assembling again, heavy and theatrical, as if competing with his own mood.A driver held a placard that read Rohit Sir – Coastal Regency Developers.He waved, half embarrassed by the title, half flattered.The driver smiled, took his bag, and said, "Rain soon, sir. Always welcomes you first."Rohit almost answered, It's been welcoming me my whole life, but he bit back the sentiment. Architects were supposed to be precise, not poetic.
The car nosed through traffic thick with rickshaws and horns.Kochi looked both older and busier than he remembered, its edges crumbling and regenerating at once.He had returned to oversee a redevelopment project — heritage quarters converted into boutique apartments for NRIs who wanted nostalgia with Wi-Fi.Adaptive reuse, the proposal called it. He had written those words himself.
As the rain started, he rolled down the window. Drops slapped his arm, warm and familiar.He took out his sketchbook, balancing it against the door.The driver glanced in the mirror. "Drawing, sir?""Always," Rohit said. "Helps me think straight."He traced the lines of the street — rickshaw roofs glistening, children darting barefoot through puddles. The pencil trembled with each bump, turning straight lines into heartbeats.
By the time they reached Fort Kochi, the rain had grown intimate — not a downpour but a conversation.The old quarter smelled of cinnamon and salt. Dutch-roofed houses leaned into one another like tired relatives.Here was where the project would bloom: Harbor Residences — Luxury with Legacy.
The company's local liaison, Vinod Kurup, met him at the site office, a narrow room with blue-painted walls and a flickering tube light."Welcome back, Rohit Sir. We start demolition next week.""Demolition?" Rohit frowned. "The plan said restoration."Vinod shrugged. "Foundation too weak. We'll rebuild exact same look. Easier permit."Exact same look. The phrase grated. Replica heritage — nostalgia packaged in plaster.
Rohit stared at the old spice warehouse outside.Its bricks were dark with time, its arches wide enough for monsoon light to walk through.He could almost hear the sea whispering behind it.
"We'll talk," he said.
That evening, he wandered through the lanes with his sketchbook.Children splashed in runoff water, their laughter mixing with the hiss of frying snacks.He stopped at a chai stall where steam rose in ghostly shapes.
"New face, sir?" the vendor asked."Old face, new work.""Ah, architect?""Yes.""Then fix our roofs first."
Rohit smiled. He drew the man's hands — thick-knuckled, sure — then the kettle's plume turning into a cloud.Steam blurred the page. The smell of ginger and rain fused in his head, and for a moment he felt absurdly grateful to be here, sketching something that refused to stay still.
Back at his hotel, he spread the drawings on the bed.Most were of people, not buildings.A boy chasing a paper boat, the tea seller's grin, a woman balancing an umbrella and a tray of vadas.He realised, with a small discomfort, that the city's life interested him more than its structures.
His phone buzzed — an email from his London firm: Remember, client presentation Monday. Emphasise modern efficiency, not nostalgia.He stared at the sentence until the words lost shape.Outside, the rain deepened into a steady roar.
Morning brought sun and the smell of wet concrete.At the site, workers were already hammering at the warehouse walls.He stopped one of them. "Who told you to start?""Order from office, sir."Chunks of brick fell, releasing a smell of old spice and seawater.Rohit felt something collapse inside him too.
He climbed onto the half-torn wall. "Stop! Leave the east arch. Don't touch that."The foreman hesitated. "Weak, sir.""Still standing," Rohit said.
Vinod arrived, sweating. "Sir, delay means loss.""Sometimes loss saves what matters."Vinod blinked, unsure if it was philosophy or insubordination.Rohit climbed down, brushing dust from his palms. "I'll draw a new plan. One that listens to the building."
That night he worked by lamplight, sketching until the paper tore.He kept the eastern arch intact, turned the inner halls into studios for displaced artisans — carpenters, metalworkers, painters.Instead of glass elevators, he drew stairways open to monsoon air.He wrote in bold: Handcraft Lab — Rebuild with Memory.
When he finally looked up, dawn had spilled into the room.His tea had gone cold; the city outside was waking again, patient as forgiveness.
Days blurred into a rhythm of negotiation, sweat, and sketch lines.Investors grumbled; artisans returned, curious.Rohit learned the dialect of labour — the price of limewash, the politics of tea breaks, the poetry in hammer strikes.Sometimes he caught himself sketching clouds instead of roofs.
He began keeping a small diary — short entries, one sentence each:
July 8 — Rain came at 2 p.m. Smells like the sea learning to read.July 14 — Old mason showed me a coin he found in the wall. Said it bought a meal once.July 22 — I think buildings remember kindness.
Weeks later, the first restored arch stood complete, damp and beautiful.He ran his fingers over the brick, rough and cool.It felt alive, the way old things do when they've been seen again.
He took a photo and sent it to his father with a message: Not everything has to be new to matter.The reply came hours later: Proud of you, mone. Don't forget to come home for Onam.
He smiled. Maybe he already was home.
That evening, as the sky bruised purple, he returned to the chai stall.The vendor poured tea through the steel filter, laughter steaming around them."Drawing again, sir?""Always."He sketched the stall's smoke turning into clouds, the train in the distance whistling through rain.Steam fogged his glasses.Through it, the world looked softer, possible.