The Intercity Express : Never say never

The lady embarked on the quaint little town of Palakkad. She took a seat near the window, directly opposite to where he was sitting. He has just finished reading a copy of ‘India Today’ and was drinking in the environs. He , a handsome young man in his mid-twenties. And the lady is of some indeterminate age, but not less than a 45 . All your assumptions about age goes wrong with middle-class Indian housewives. Most of them look much older than their age. Can I take the mean of my intuition and the established reality and  peg it at 40? A pleasant faced lady , with their head clad with the end of her saree, which constantly falls off to reveal her hair, slick with oil. She sat there nursing her arthritic legs.


Now, another important thing with the middle class Indian is that they don't hesitate to strike up conversations with any stranger they meet on the road. They don't give a damn about how you look or speak; and there need not essentially be a subject to speak about, anything mundane can do.


“Going to Tirupur, that’s where we are put up”, she smiled.


He smiled ; He did not really mind her going anywhere; nor was he interested in her whereabouts


But she thought it necessary to explain her appearance in Palakkad , “we have one house here, it is let to a family. I come here every month to collect the house rent and this Intercity express takes me back home”.


He smiled again , he did not have a problem with that either.


“Those people are very good, our tenants” , she exclaimed to his monosyllabic reciprocations. “ Their parents are both long dead, and the family is now left with only their son and daughter”. “ And the girl is a darling, she is beautiful ”


“ Now my husband is a Patani, you know them, the ones speaking Hindi...?" He says that we will get her married once we find a good guy


Now another light nod of the head. Cant he speak, I thought. But what?


The woman continued, “ She’ll get a good husband, she is beautiful, those wide eyes…”


Now they are also Nairs, like you , son.


The train was decelerating, whistling loud and clear. And before she could say anything more, he readied himself and clutched the bag as the train was nearing Coimbatore,
And shortly with a “Namaskaram”  , he walked away


She looked at me sheepishly as if her daily bread was snatched by a cunning crow, in a swish, silently diving high from skies. I gave a reassuring nod < Better luck next time , lady>


Back to present, I remember my good friend Akash asking me, “ how is a village better than a city, Shree?” , Now this is my answer my friend. Along with the quietness of the  mornings and the cacophony of chirpy birds, its these people who relish their lives with a  feeling of contentment that they work to better the lives of their neighbours that I miss in the city.


Every city needs a few of them : people with nothing to preoccupy their minds, no surrounding bubbles and no fences separating the houses