TRAIN STATION

s the nascent rays of the rising sun highlight the edge of my magazine page, as I near the end of a rather interesting article about politics and look up at the morning mist clear underneath the flickering halogen lights. The unceasing aged charcoal platform seems in cohesion with the somber mood of the two maybe three people that occupy the other over-varnished timber benches at this hour of day. Oddly enough, vast silence and stillness reigns over the terminal, only a few vibrant plastic wrappers Mephisto to a slight breeze along its taupe ballroom. It is quiet and deserted and almost enchanting. A blaring soprano announcement slices through the gratifying silence of the morning and with it starts an uproar.

A raucous, argute shriek heralds the arrival of a decrepit carriage standing in defiance of its condition. A melting pot of people burst through its immense gates, as series of asynchronous loafers and sandals sprint in all directions. A wave of heat licks faces and coils around bodies like a nest of savage serpents on hunt. Each person moves as if unseen hands drag them this way then that, and furrowed brows, sweaty necks and urgent eyes swivel about in confusion. It’s like a volcanic eruption of an unholy perfumes, body odour and foul, cheap overpriced cologne explodes in my face all at once. The air now, throws out an acrid musty aftertaste causing my taste buds to twitch in agony. A tsunami of chaos has drowned the peace I so long for within minutes.

Although disjointed, the crowd moves in one direction. Every walk of life shoulder to shoulder, no personal space and no expectations, and amid the confusion a young boy tries to keep up, constantly tripping over his oversized khaki dhoti. It’s stampede of untamed hyenas out there, when the crowd moves so must the boy and if his tiny feet fail to keep up, he risks being trampled under their carnivorous claws. Around the corner of a pillar right on cue, a familiar voice calls out for tea in perfect intimation like it does every morning at the arrival of the first trains. A Chaiwala man’s his makeshift kiosk while sultry rich golden brown tea cascades from his large metal pot into a gargantuan of greedy plastic cups with accuracy beyond belief. With his vacant hand he strives to thrust bronze and silver copper coins into his endless pockets. There is no time to stop nor think, one must just move.

To a stranger the disarray and mayhem is unwelcome. But if one looks closely enough you’d see that the crowd has a life of its own. A multicolored cornucopia of clothes and exciting chatter of the people, old friends catching up, new friends made and with that I flip the page of my magazine to indulge in the next article.