It has every right to be, I think. Things have been weird on both personal and creative fronts of late, and the past few days have been a different sort of pain - nothing particularly bad happens, the books are seldom in the red when you take stock at night, but there is a small feeling in the back of your mind that all your cynical notions about specific people and the world in general are being slowly but irrevocably reinforced.
All days but this day.
Had a (slightly) productive morning, an eventful afternoon and a good evening. It is just that the people I enjoy hanging with and the conversations we tend to have veer into melancholic territory, so a good discussion is generally not indicative of the state of mind it leaves one in.
Had been discussing Vonnegut (again) today - how his career graph shows his struggle with the growing sense of despair that he felt with regards to the world around him. He was of the opinion that we are all passable people as long as we concentrate on our intrinsic humanity; but he also believed that we were steadily losing our ability to recognize that fact.
The journey home was supposed to be brief, but it gave enough time to acquaint oneself with another poem in G.M. Muktibodh's repertoire. The poem was bleak, too. So I was in a slightly morose state of mind as I made my way up the looong escalator to the red line, to Welcome, towards home.
The red line was more crowded than the yellow at this point: most of the Jamna-paar workforce headed homewards at the end of a hard day's work. I wedged myself into the doorway, completed the Herculean task of turning around, and began making my way across the width of the compartment, since Welcome (unlike Kashmere Gate) is one of those few stations with an island platform that serves both rails.
In the end the crowd got a little too dense to handle, so I hung about in the middle as the train began its long journey to Shastri Park station.
It was while we crossed the Yamuna that I first noticed him: a short, thin man standing slightly to my right, positioned so that his dirty backpack was digging into my shirt. I shuffled a little to the right to minimize contact, and the resultant paradigm shift gave me an excellent view over his shoulder. The first three things I noticed (in order) were:
1.) The fact that he was missing a couple of nails
2.) The scar that ran down the side of his neck (stopping just before his jugular); and
3.) The fact that I would be forced to look at the screen of his phone unless I was willing to attempt another change in position.
A change in position was impossible, for now; I stayed put. Besides, the dude wasn't even reading any embarrassing texts or anything; all he was doing was going through his phonebook at a sedate pace. It was an interesting exercise; he had a nondescript moustache and no discerning marks to tell me his religion, and there were both an Amit Chacha and an Adil Mamu in his phonebook; was he another one of those lovechilds born out of the bounds of religion? And if yes, did he have an interesting story of his own?
Presently he came to somebody called Ashu. This Ashu seemed pretty interesting himself: he seemed to have numbers across every network! An Ashu was followed by an Ashu Airtel.. an Ashu Airtel (2).. An Ashu Docomo.. An Ashu Dolphin.
The first stirring of unease came with Ashu Hutch (2). I had a vague idea that they checked a person's records before handing him a new phoneline; a guy with seven numbers (eight now, and counting) had to show up as a pretty big blip on some radar somewhere.
By the time he finally reached Ashu Virgin (2) I was starting to get distinctly uncomfortable. My mind skipped over all the jokes about sexual inexperience that had no punchlines. And I listened closely as he pressed the green button and brought the handset next to his year.
"Main metro talag pahunch gaya hoon," he said. "Haan. Haan. Theek hai. Baad mein baat karta hoon."He hung up. His part of the conversation had been innocuous-I'm on the metro, I'll talk to you later-but his choice of words was slightly strange. Why would he say he had reached the metro? The metro was a path, not a destination!
ding
Said the PA system, followed by "Shastri Park.. Station."
The man with the scar reached forward into the crowd, cutting through to the door with an exaggerated sense of urgency, and he was at the head of the mass exodus that would follow within a moment or two.
ding
"Stand clear.. Of the doors."
And suddenly I could breathe, loosen my grip on the handhold, actually turn my head without establishing potentially-embarrassing eye contact with a perfect st-
And there it was.
Lying a couple of feet away, packed in a layer of newspapers and frayed twine, a rectangular crate the size of a large shoebox. Exactly where my friend with the scar had been standing.
I looked up blankly, uncomprehendingly, and the last thing I saw before the doors hummed shut was him, shoving his way through the crowds, trying so hard to get as far away as he could.
What followed were perhaps the longest four minutes of my life. Three people were standing equidistant from the crate - me towards the left, an old man with an apologetic face behind it, and a young guy in a black pullover with oversized headphones to the right. We broke the cardinal rule and established eye-contact, trying to establish if the crate belonged to one of us.
All we saw was our own confusion mirrored back.
There was absolute silence, and in my head I could already hear the rumble of the collapsing overpass, the flare of light and sound so bright and loud it would cause people miles away to flinch, the screams of the twisting girders drowning out the screams of the people onboard.
I probably wouldn't even get to scream.
ding.
"Seelampur.. Station."
I was pretty sure we'd've reached Dilshad Garden by now. I would get off, cross over to the other platform, catch a train back to Welcome, and laugh at my idiocy all the way. If only. If only. If only.
The doors opened.
"Y-ye bag kiska hai?" It was the guy with the oversized headphones. He had probably started off trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice had betrayed him on the first syllable itself.
"Kiska hai, bhai?" The old man this time. I wanted to get in my two cents, too, but I wasn't sure I could manage at this point.
The air was thickening. I was positive of that. It shouldn't have been so difficult to breathe.
"Mera! Mera bag hai." We all turned simultaneously. A middle-aged person rose from a seat behind us, his salt&pepper hair in a tizzy, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
He came forward to stand beside the crate, babbling disjointedly about inconsiderate morons who kick other people's luggage into the netherworld, and we finally relaxed a bit. The old person shook his head resignedly, the young man began humming (a bit too forcefully?) along to his music-an old Kishore number that I didn't mind being slaughtered. Not here. Not now.
I turned to the window and looked out. A pale face stared back at me, his expression completely blank, his complexion ashen.
It took another two minutes before my heart-rate returned to normal.
ding.
"Welcome," said the automated voice, and I laughed like an idiot as I got off the train.
I sat on a bench for a few minutes before making my way home, and turning on the PC, and beginning the entry I am about to end. There,. on the bench, I had a weird thought. I had a lot of weird thoughts, but this one has persisted through the bus ride, the inevitable scolding, and my dinner (which I have forgotten ten minutes after eating).
I know my thoughts and actions aren't completely in sync with the sort of life I lead - I have it easy, mostly, and the sort of melancholia I display (enjoy, suggests a small voice in my head) isn't exactly called for.
I am not going to justify anything I say or do - I have a right to lead my life the way I want, after all, and even five-car pileups are a rubbernecker's paradise - but I still think it is my life, and I have the right to infer the glass is half empty and whoever drank half and left are probably dying of thirst somewhere remote.
What I hate is being forced down certain paths by events beyond my control.
I had a bad day (or a good day that left no impression on me, if you want to be anal about this) and I hate the fact that I am feeling lucky to be alive.
