On a day that I had to take the public transport to ride to the other end of the city, which is actually another state, I realized I took the tube years after Kahaani was released. Yes, I gave in to the cinematic fear of suffocating in a compartment which was poisoned, or whatever it was. Accompanying me, my friend was amused to see fear written in bold letters all over me. I was sweating profusely and my heartbeat increased proactively.
It was like the return of a monster, in other words, a sequel to a horror story. This time it was rail-speed, and imaginary attacks by terrorists, gunshots and bloodshed. This negative horror of anticipating the worst possibilities have become second skin, until in one of those epiphanies, I decided to listen to some music. I excused myself from my friend's banter and dissolved into an army of poetry, percussion and strings battling the imaginary bullets. The bullets were fast, fierce, left a mark. Till I remembered words are really, often, all we have to hang on to.
Having found that resource to cling, I looked at the faces around me. Numbers have also been a ruffian-like monster. I cannot give you the exact percentage, but may be, twas about 95% of the woman's compartment, no, 99%, who were engrossed in you-know-what, their smartphones. Young fingers were actively scrolling on the screen with the same agility of a grandmother's rolling out a roti. Middle-aged attention was captured by online shows they must have missed the earlier evening, and newly-weds (around 20%), in their fearless faux pas wrists ladled with glass bangles, managed their newly got/bought bags (I am good at betting, and can assure you most of the MKs were fake), and effectively snuggled the phone between their slanted head and uplifted shoulders. Gross, the misfit in the outfit and the accessory and the incessant whispers into the phone. Am I judging? All of you do. Each of you stereotype; in spite of our best efforts at liberating our minds, we do. Few, like me, are foolish to accept that we do. I indulged, as if I found the perfect scoop of tender coconut ice-cream in that compartment.
There were some who looked rather refined, the kinds who would be the intelligentsia (0.25%), too aloof from the humdrum around, only staring blankly at the window as if they too were one with the music that was plugged inside their ears. I thought for a while (in the apologized delay) how must I appear to them -- tourist-y, you could say, taking in the new, sometimes opening my earphone to ask my friend "how many more stations", or, "how much longer". I didn't care. Yes, I found the next question bothering me! Was spondylitis somehow related to smartphones? I wandered to what the correct spelling of spondylosis was. Was it spondiliosis, spondilitis...or oh my god, I found another stock character. The ones who look alike. I mean, have you noticed something uncanny about this new generation high-schoolers, or college-goers? All have straight hair, ironed to perfection, all of them pout in an effort to take a selfie (yes, also inside the packed metro), hands on their waist, thin or fat like thin or fat were meant to be, and not much to differentiate between their skin-tight jeans and t-shirt with a message. From city to city, I eventually land up on these, sometimes barging on a Blue Lays at ANY time of the day.
My friend elbowed me (as she WhatsApped) indicating it was time for our station. I smiled, switching off the song and pulling out the earphones, leaving a faint superior smirk to those glued to games -- I was at level 1050 -- way better than any of them. As I made my way to the Gurudwara, I sat at peace and thought of all those faces that came in and those who left along -- so much for fears. Three insights into how each one's life could possibly have been just before they de/boarded, was enough to shut out all the bullets. Inner peace.
I love my life because I love looking into other people's life.
Having found that resource to cling, I looked at the faces around me. Numbers have also been a ruffian-like monster. I cannot give you the exact percentage, but may be, twas about 95% of the woman's compartment, no, 99%, who were engrossed in you-know-what, their smartphones. Young fingers were actively scrolling on the screen with the same agility of a grandmother's rolling out a roti. Middle-aged attention was captured by online shows they must have missed the earlier evening, and newly-weds (around 20%), in their fearless faux pas wrists ladled with glass bangles, managed their newly got/bought bags (I am good at betting, and can assure you most of the MKs were fake), and effectively snuggled the phone between their slanted head and uplifted shoulders. Gross, the misfit in the outfit and the accessory and the incessant whispers into the phone. Am I judging? All of you do. Each of you stereotype; in spite of our best efforts at liberating our minds, we do. Few, like me, are foolish to accept that we do. I indulged, as if I found the perfect scoop of tender coconut ice-cream in that compartment.
There were some who looked rather refined, the kinds who would be the intelligentsia (0.25%), too aloof from the humdrum around, only staring blankly at the window as if they too were one with the music that was plugged inside their ears. I thought for a while (in the apologized delay) how must I appear to them -- tourist-y, you could say, taking in the new, sometimes opening my earphone to ask my friend "how many more stations", or, "how much longer". I didn't care. Yes, I found the next question bothering me! Was spondylitis somehow related to smartphones? I wandered to what the correct spelling of spondylosis was. Was it spondiliosis, spondilitis...or oh my god, I found another stock character. The ones who look alike. I mean, have you noticed something uncanny about this new generation high-schoolers, or college-goers? All have straight hair, ironed to perfection, all of them pout in an effort to take a selfie (yes, also inside the packed metro), hands on their waist, thin or fat like thin or fat were meant to be, and not much to differentiate between their skin-tight jeans and t-shirt with a message. From city to city, I eventually land up on these, sometimes barging on a Blue Lays at ANY time of the day.
My friend elbowed me (as she WhatsApped) indicating it was time for our station. I smiled, switching off the song and pulling out the earphones, leaving a faint superior smirk to those glued to games -- I was at level 1050 -- way better than any of them. As I made my way to the Gurudwara, I sat at peace and thought of all those faces that came in and those who left along -- so much for fears. Three insights into how each one's life could possibly have been just before they de/boarded, was enough to shut out all the bullets. Inner peace.
I love my life because I love looking into other people's life.
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