The Man in the Fog — A Ponmanipudi Story of Dr. Chari’s Dawn Encounter

“The Man in the Fog”

(A Ponmanipudi Winter Tale)

Early winter had settled over Ponmanipudi like a soft, fleece blanket..

The roads were draped in fog so thick it felt like driving through wisps of clouds.

Dr. Chari was fresh, alert, and calm — as he always was before a long day of sharing knowledge.

It was 5:10 AM when he left Ananda Neelam, the mist gathering on the Dacia’s windshield creating a gossamer of dew.

The world was silent except for the Vivaldi violin concerto that filled the car — sharp, pure notes slicing the fog ahead of him.

The headlights cut a thin tunnel through the mist…

and suddenly, a silhouette appeared.

A man standing on the road, waving frantically for him to stop.

Dr. Chari slowed, lowered his window.

“Sir! Thank God! Fog is too much… lift kidaikkuma?” the man said, shivering.

Chari blinked.

“Goutham? Taxi driver Goutham?”

“Ayyo sir, who else waves at cars in this fog? Ghost-aa?” Goutham laughed, slapping the cold air.

Chari smiled and unlocked the door.

“Come in before you freeze.”

Inside the car, Goutham rubbed his palms.

“Sir, your Dacia… sound coming from back? Some rattling?”

“You noticed that too?” Chari asked.

“Of course, Chari saar! I’m taxi driver. Our ears are like ultrasound. Bring torch.”

Chari parked under a huge neem tree, fog swirling like grey silk around them.

Goutham jumped out, opened the back, poked around for a minute, then popped up grinning.

“Sir! One bottle jack is loose. Who kept it like this? World-famous doctor… but car maintenance padi nammala keakkanum!”

Chari laughed.

“Correct. Without you, this car will fall apart.”

“Without me, this whole village will fall apart,” Goutham said proudly, climbing back in.

They drove together toward Brindlemalai, the fog glowing faintly as dawn began pushing light into the world.

Just before the hill turn, Goutham said, “Saar, stop here. I’ll walk down shortcut. You go safe. And tighten that jack properly, okay?”

Chari nodded.

“Take care, Goutham.”

“Ayyayo Anna, I’m always around,” he said with a wink.

He stepped out, disappeared into the fog like ink dissolving into water.

Chari continued the drive, Vivaldi swelling in the background, the morning finally opening its eyes.

At the tea stall on the outskirts of Brindlemalai, he stopped for his usual steaming cup.

“Early-ah pala?” the tea master asked.

“Yes. Fog was heavy. Picked up Goutham on the way,” Chari said casually. “He fixed the rattle.”

The tea master froze.

“Who… who did you pick up?”

“Goutham,” Chari repeated. “Taxi Goutham. He walked toward the hill.”

The man’s eyes widened with fear.

Customers turned.

“Anna…

Goutham passed away two days ago.

Heart attack. In his sleep. Whole village went for cremation yesterday.”

The cup slipped from Chari’s hand.

The tea splashed onto the dusty floor.

He felt the fog again — suddenly heavier… colder… too silent.

“He… he was in my car,” Chari whispered.

The tea master shook his head slowly.

“Maybe he just came to help you one last time, Saar. He loved fixing people’s cars. Everyone knows that.”

Dr. Chari stepped outside.

The mist rolled along the road.

He looked toward Brindlemalai…

the exact spot where Goutham had said,

“I’m always around, saar.”

And in that thick white curtain of winter fog…

Chari could have sworn he saw a faint outline.

A shape, a shadow — just for a second.

Then it was gone.

The rattle in the Dacia was gone too.

And as he drove on toward the conference,

the violin of Vivaldi felt softer…

holier…

as though someone else was listening from the back seat.