The air was dense with humidity, heavy with the scent of jasmine, roasted peanuts, exhaust fumes, and nostalgia. Saravanan stepped out of the airport determined not to fall into comfort. His father's diary had spoken of pride not in wealth or privilege, but in perseverance. In walking alongside common people. In standing rather than sitting. In choosing humility when luxury was available.
So he refused the waiting cabs. He waved away the persistent auto drivers. Instead, he headed for the Metro station, a modern echo of the older rail lines his father might have used. He stood in line, recharged a Metro travel card with ₹1000, and dropped it into his pocket like a ticket to the past. With each train that rattled down the tunnel, he felt like he was not merely commuting—he was moving through layers of memory.
The crowd inside the train pressed close, but he didn't mind. He was no longer Saravanan the graduate or businessman. He was a traveler retracing footsteps erased by time.
As the train sliced beneath the city's surface, he opened his father's diary once again. The leather binding felt warm from his touch. Flipping through yellowing pages, his eyes landed on a detail that tugged at him:
"Government school near Mount Road. Weak in math. Strong in silence."
He looked up, startled. Mount Road.
A quick search on the Metro map showed him the stop: LIC Station.
The heart of the city. The towering LIC Building—a relic of an era, still casting shadows over the endless movement of buses, hawkers, and everyday struggles.
He got off at LIC.
Here's the full, expanded continuation you were expecting — picking up from where Saravanan steps into LIC and finds the trail of his father's past:
Outside the LIC Metro Station, Chennai's heartbeat pulsed loud and unruly. The air was thick with honking traffic, hawker calls, and the distant chime of temple bells. Saravanan stood at the edge of the pavement, clutching his father's diary tightly, as if it were a compass guiding him through time.
He made his way down the wide stretch of Anna Salai, scanning the street for familiar markers from the diary. Towering above the chaos stood the iconic LIC Building, a stubborn relic from the 1950s, still holding its ground amidst a city evolving around it. Somewhere in the shadows of this monolith, his father had once walked as a boy—barefoot, maybe, or with sandals worn thin by use.
Saravanan finally reached the Government School nestled in a narrow side lane just off Mount Road. Its gate creaked open reluctantly, and inside, time seemed to slow. The buildings were old—paint peeling, windows rusting—but still standing, like memories that refused to fade.
He wandered the courtyard, past children in uniforms yelling and laughing, imagining his father as one of them—quiet, watchful, unnoticed. He approached a small administrative block and asked around gently, respectfully.
"Subramaniyan?" he repeated several times, with hopeful eyes.
Most shook their heads. Too many years had passed. Too many faces had come and gone.
But then came a voice from behind, dry and deep:
"Subramaniyan… you mean the silent one?"
Saravanan turned.
There, seated under the shade of a neem tree, was a frail man, skin like old parchment, eyes bright with old wisdom. His shirt was half-buttoned, a cloth bag beside him filled with marked exam papers. He introduced himself with a crooked smile.
"Raja. I taught mathematics here for 42 years."
When Saravanan introduced himself as Subramaniyan's son, the old man exhaled slowly, as if time itself had folded in on that moment.
"I remember now. Your father was a boy with too much silence and too little math," Raja chuckled softly. "He was always mocked for his sums, even failed twice. But he always completed his homework. Always. No matter how wrong the answers were, the work was there. On time. Neat. Respectful. There was something in him… not loud brilliance, but… quiet discipline."
Raja's smile faded for a second, a shadow passing over his wrinkled face.
"We never imagined he'd become anything more than a clerk. We never knew he'd rise like that. I'm sorry, son. We didn't see his fire."
Then, from the folds of his bag, Raja pulled out a small slip of paper. On it was scrawled an address in faded ink.
"Royapuram," Raja said. "That's where he lived. A tiny house. If you're looking for the rest of your father's story... start there."
Saravanan took the note with both hands, bowing slightly.
He had come to this city chasing numbers, names, and documents.
Instead, he found a piece of his father's forgotten pain—and unexpected dignity.
And now, with Royapuram etched in his mind, he knew where he had to go next.