...
Chennai station waiting hall..
The silence and solitude and calm. The stillness.
Achievable only in the midst of busy colourful noisy crowds.
Achievable only in the midst of busy colourful noisy crowds.
The comfort of company, without the demands of company.
The opportunity to watch, without being watched.
The opportunity to watch, without being watched.
The old man wearing his wife's electric blue handbag without any self consciousness.
Families spreading their sheetingd on the platform. Enjoying space and the moving panorama. And their own family company.
The TV screens serving mouth watering ads, in the midst of essential details of arriving and departing trains.
The friendly announcer on the loudspeaker requesting my kind attention ever and anon !
Give me this quietness anyday over silent Nature. People rock.
....
The train is crowded. There is barely sitting space on the three seater, and I seem to keep falling off into the aisle. If i doze off, I slip. If I read on the shaking train I doze.
And yet I would never rather travel any other way. As this is Life. This is India. This is shared living. The second class trains.
The reserved and unreserved sharing sitting and standing space. Relearning simple aadjustments that is so easily forgotten. Thse days.
The two middle aged men across. With broad bands of vibhuti on their foreheads. Who after eating the idlis neatly packed in banana leaves are reading some shlokam books.
The pretty young mother opposite with her three kids. And her mother n law. The kids playing musical chairs for the window seat. The mother alternately cajoling an raisng her voice. The lot of all mothers.
The endless stream ot eats. All at a budget of 10/-or 20/-. Boiled corn, bhelpuri, samosas, five for 20/-, coffee.
Eats accessible to all. WhIch is what eating should be about. In a community. In a country.
The vendors. Keychains, combs, safety pins, cell phone covers. Simple lIves. Seeking survival. In a woeld that has no time for them anymore.
India. One county, many worlds.
The Colors of hope.
The young Bihari boy. With his long hangers of keychains. Of colourful dolls with gowns of psychedelic threads, and of metallic coloured plastic gods.
Hangers he hangs on each window seat. As he walks down the coach with his wares.
And the dolls sway to the winds. Mesmerisingly.
In this unreserved coach. Where 6 people willingly adjust into a seat for four. Making space and inviting others.
They will buy the keychains without bargaining.
The poor never bargain. The know what poverty is.
The poorest places are the most heartful ...
No comments:
Post a Comment