The Tale of Two Sons (Pattabiram)

The sleeper coach cast long shadows over the faces of the passengers, illuminated intermittently by the glow of their phones or passing lamps in the train corridor. The hum of the Tamil Nadu Express moving steadily southward provided a steady backdrop to the narrative unfolding inside.

Narain held everyone's attention like a campfire storyteller. As he spoke, his voice was steady, pulling the others into the world he created with his words.

"In the lush village of Nallur, Tamil Nadu, two sons were born to Nandagopal and Anuradha, wealthy and respected landowners. Twins — Ram and Pattabi — could not have been more different. Ram was brilliant, curious, and ambitious; by fifteen, he'd built a brainwave scanner from scraps. His future lay in the UK, where he became a celebrated neuroscientist. Pattabi, quiet and humble, stayed in the village. While Ram mastered minds, Pattabi tended hearts."

The listeners' eyes glimmered with interest, especially Rishi, who saw something familiar in the village, the twins, the bond.

"Ram's success was celebrated everywhere. His picture hung proudly in the house and village. But Pattabi was 'the other son,' the helper. Only Ram and their mother saw the heavy load he carried. Ram sent money abroad, calling Pattabi 'My Elder' in his letters."

The story paused here, letting the weight of unseen sacrifices settle in the air.

"When Ram returned for a vacation, the village threw a grand welcome. Ram stood up at a gathering and said:

'If I am great, it's only because Pattabi made me free to fly. You praise me while the one who waters your roots stands unnoticed.'"

A silence followed in the coach, heavy with meaning.

"On a stormy monsoon night, fate struck. Pattabi and Ram swapped clothes as a joke before Pattabi's move to Dubai. But five armed men from a pharma-mafia gang who wanted Ram came to the house. They mistook Pattabi for Ram. Gunshots rang out. The house burned. Pattabi was found barely alive, whispering: 'I took your place... Be me.'"

Here, Rishi found his breath hitch slightly. The parallels to identity, sacrifice, and invisibility whispered to him more deeply than he expected.

"Ram, now lost and broken, vanished his past. In Dubai, he worked a humble job, hiding behind the name 'Pattabi.' But at night, he used a device—a neural memory extractor—to recall Pattabi's last moments. Three names appeared: Dr. Vinod Sehgal, Ravi Mehta, and Jackie D'Souza — the corrupt pharma leaders who destroyed their family."

The passengers leaned in.

"Ram began his silent war. Dr. Sehgal died mysteriously at a medical gala. Ravi Mehta's downfall came from leaked secrets and a toxic tea, served by Ram himself. The media called him 'Doctor X' — a ghost delivering surgical justice."

"That's intense," whispered Ajay, the student.

"On a flight, Padmavathi, a senior air hostess, recognized Ram. She had her own scars — a tragic flight where tainted medicine killed children. Guilt connected her to Ram's cause. They formed a secret alliance, communicating in flight codes and hidden messages. Together, they targeted the last enemy — Jackie D'Souza, a ruthless hotel owner in Los Angeles."

Suddenly, Seetha burst out with wide eyes, "Is Padmavathi like an air hostess? Wow! If it becomes a film, I'll play her — I don't care if I have to audition a hundred times!"

The group laughed. Even Rajesh, usually gruff and quiet, chuckled at her enthusiasm.

Narain nodded, warmly. "Yes, that character was inspired by someone close. Family obligations made her leave the skies, but her spirit fights on."

"Ram infiltrated Jackie's hotel disguised as a janitor. One stormy night, he confronted Jackie at the oceanfront pool and drowned him silently. Justice served."

The coach was silent again.

Then, slowly, the reactions came.

Neeranjana crossed her arms, thoughtful. "It's old… revenge again. But I like how you mixed science and the twins' story. That's new."

Rajesh added, "True. But for the masses, too much violence. Tamil audiences want love, comedy, family. And mass BGMs—those are what fill theatres."

Bala nodded. "Even families come to watch movies. Too much action, and they won't bring their kids."

Ajay smiled wryly, "The story is good for cinephiles like us. But the general audience wants songs, dances, humor."

Surprised by the honest feedback, Rishi asked quietly, "So, how would you change it?"

Suresh across the aisle chuckled. "Add more light moments, more romance or comedy. Less gunshots, more heartbeats. The story should embrace the family — even the villains need layers, not just brutality."

Narain leaned back, notebook still in his hand, visibly grateful.

"That's why we need conversations like this," he said. "Cinema isn't just art. It's a dialogue between storytellers and the people they tell it to."

Just then, the train rocked slightly harder, wheels grumbling beneath. A passing tea vendor peeked in. "Chai, coffee?"

"No thanks," Seetha murmured. The group was still steeped in narrative hangover.

Rishi, for the first time that night, offered something more than silence.

"I think… the story isn't really about revenge," he said. "It's about identity. About how people wear names and scars. Maybe that's what people need to feel — that even in pain, there's a way to hold on."

The others turned to him, surprised by his quiet insight.

Narain scribbled something quickly on the edge of a page.

"What did you write?" asked Bala.

He smiled. "A possible dialogue. From Pattabi's dream. 'Even a wound, when named with love, becomes a badge.'"

The coach fell into silence again. But this time, it wasn't empty.

It was full of characters, memories, ideas — all riding together in the same shared space of possibility.

And as the Tamil Nadu Express crossed deeper into Maharashtra, the little circle of dreamers in S9 carried on — telling stories, asking questions, and giving voice to the people that scripts alone can't hold.