I know certain people. They gossip a lot. Gossiping, in my humble opinion, is not limited to women; men are equally capable practitioners. In fact, in small towns, gossiping is both an art and a science. An art because it requires storytelling skills, perfect timing, and emotional intelligence. A science because it follows a method — one rumor at a time, calibrated, analyzed, and distributed like a well-oiled machine.

When I was a schoolteacher, there was a computer instructor who could have easily replaced any modern-day news channel. His mind was a newsroom; his mouth, a live feed. He had a nose for information, like a seasoned reporter on the hunt for breaking news. Every day, he carried the latest updates — not about technology, but about people. Who argued with whom, who got promoted, whose child scored less, and whose scooter had a flat tire.

His caricature had turned into a television. When he entered the staff room, conversations automatically paused, waiting for his broadcast. I often espied that machine-like human being — a strong voice, sharp gestures, stories told with the flair of an orator. I bet he bragged a lot, but he did it so convincingly that one couldn’t help but listen. Confidence was his second skin, and like a village soothsayer, he predicted events that hadn’t yet happened — and sometimes, miraculously, he was right.

I grew up in Jharkhand, where education wasn’t just a necessity; it was the backbone of our lives. Being a student of Kendriya Vidyalaya, I learned early about the meaning of discipline and true secularism. Our days were governed by a timetable that rarely bent. We celebrated only the festivals mentioned in the government calendar — Republic Day, Independence Day, Teachers’ Day, and the occasional school fete. Life was simple, structured, and predictable.

There was a fixed time for everything — waking up, studying, playing, even dreaming. The rhythm of life was mechanical yet comforting, a routine that bred reliability.

But Saran was — and still is — a different story. Here, time flows like a river that refuses to follow a map. Being late is the new normal. People arrive not according to the clock but to their convenience. In Saran, a promise for “five minutes” means half an hour, and “coming soon” might stretch to the next morning.

Even the trains have absorbed this philosophy. The Sonpur Junction, once a symbol of connectivity and punctuality, now seems to operate on intuition rather than schedule. Trains run at their own pace, sometimes waiting for reasons only the wind knows. No one complains, though. Perhaps people here have learned to coexist with unpredictability.

And maybe that’s the essence of Saran — a place where everyone predicts, narrates, and justifies life in their own unique rhythm. From tea stalls to temples, gossip replaces data, predictions replace plans, and patience replaces panic.

In Saran, everyone is a soothsayer — and somehow, amid the chaos, life still moves beautifully forward.