"Where is the waiting room?" I inquired the station master, who was half-asleep. I realized that nudging him out of his slumber might not be beneficial. Rather, I could invite the spite of a civil servant for disturbing while he was on 'duty'. The station wore a similar look like her caretaker (the station master). Derelict and deserted; except for the few signs of life in form of the tea vendor, a few porters and a stray dog. It was holding on to its charm which existed no more. Its antiquity was being chided by frivolousness. The station master was dressed up all perfect, but his attire was ridden with holes and soiled. Yet he clung to his uniform diligently, trying to save his reputation till the last breath. But both were beyond restoration and it would be only a matter of time when a new order will replace this decay. Modernization has had little consideration of past as it paves way for future, which in itself is uncertain.
It had been an arduous journey till now and the want of comfort was stronger by the moment. The train was to arrive at 3 o'clock in the morning (the railways need to do something about timings!) and had an hour or two to kill. This was my transit stop towards the city-having to change trains for forward journey to my hometown. Nested in the valley, it used to boast of many places to where I could wander and never be found; where noises ceased to exist, where the winter dew would rest on the leaves and midsummer nights had the stars for company. And then the inevitable happened-I grew up and moved out, to explore a life and own it. Here and there, day and night, roads and lights-your feet takes wherever it feels like, attracted by the next distraction. It has a mind of its own and the heart is mischievous enough in agreeing with, 'let me take you where there's no end, only another beginning', it says. That is how it goes-exhausting the nights at 'waiting rooms' and then off by morning after.
The room was hosting a motley group of tourists-the valley has been a major vacation spot for many years now, which has helped in building the town and its people. But I can't affirm whether the increased presence of humans has done good; maybe to the other humans but to the valley; it still likes its recluse and silence, something you and me cringe at. We have been habituated to an air of dissonance, emanating from the machines that produce comfort of existence. Our exterior lives have a planned arrangement of noises- an orchestra of sounds playing everyday in the backdrop while we make a living. Sounds that makes us belief in communication, that there's society made up of our voices. It is beyond fathom to introduce silence in our days. It has a spectral behavior; behaves unnaturally when left to itself. In its company, if forced to, you might hear the conversations within (you), which remains forbidden in spirit. Nightfall would bring out its true shape, growing with the rising darkness and then taking control over the rest of night. We resisted its dictatorship (even though benevolent) and through democratic clamour, noises were restored. It is claimed with a certain truth that now, it is hard to come across a silent breath on the streets.
The platform suddenly came to life again on the announcement of an incoming train. A few did alight, in the middle of the night. Few moments later, it was the usual dullness all around. The waiting room was in a sleepy state with most passengers dozing when she stepped in. Her appearance reflected the tiredness of journey she had so far, arms laden with luggage and searching for a place to sit. Motioning her towards my seat, I got up. She smilingly accepted the offer without utterance of a word. Once she had a glance of the surroundings, she settled down with a book, cutting off the world, as if there wasn't any sight or sound worthy of interest. Her eyes were fixated on the pages, careful not to venture out of the bound of the letters. Her slender hands, poised on knees, guarding from intruders of the outside world. Those strands of hair did beautifully mask the true appearance, another deliberate attempt in rebutting remarks.I peered into what was visible of her across the room and it felt that hers has been a lone journey, sifting from one place to another. She had herself confined to chains of stillness and her spirit was did not protest. There was silence within her, which was misplaced in this orderly chaos. She knows it all along, doesn't fight it, nor detest it. Such strange was her entrapment which allowed no companion to fill that void with all the noise.
An hour or so had passed and my train was to arrive anytime now. Getting ready to move out towards the platform, I stared for one last time at her, as if trying to bid a proper farewell. All of a sudden, the archaic station master enters the room, and then hurried towards her. He gestured with his hands, trying to explain something. With much difficulty, he got her to understand. She spoke a different language which the master couldn't understand, neither would I. Silent was her voice, which cannot be heard amongst the noises in which I reside. She headed to her platform, her time to leave. The night was almost over and I wished for once that the day after wouldn't be forthcoming.
It had been an arduous journey till now and the want of comfort was stronger by the moment. The train was to arrive at 3 o'clock in the morning (the railways need to do something about timings!) and had an hour or two to kill. This was my transit stop towards the city-having to change trains for forward journey to my hometown. Nested in the valley, it used to boast of many places to where I could wander and never be found; where noises ceased to exist, where the winter dew would rest on the leaves and midsummer nights had the stars for company. And then the inevitable happened-I grew up and moved out, to explore a life and own it. Here and there, day and night, roads and lights-your feet takes wherever it feels like, attracted by the next distraction. It has a mind of its own and the heart is mischievous enough in agreeing with, 'let me take you where there's no end, only another beginning', it says. That is how it goes-exhausting the nights at 'waiting rooms' and then off by morning after.
The room was hosting a motley group of tourists-the valley has been a major vacation spot for many years now, which has helped in building the town and its people. But I can't affirm whether the increased presence of humans has done good; maybe to the other humans but to the valley; it still likes its recluse and silence, something you and me cringe at. We have been habituated to an air of dissonance, emanating from the machines that produce comfort of existence. Our exterior lives have a planned arrangement of noises- an orchestra of sounds playing everyday in the backdrop while we make a living. Sounds that makes us belief in communication, that there's society made up of our voices. It is beyond fathom to introduce silence in our days. It has a spectral behavior; behaves unnaturally when left to itself. In its company, if forced to, you might hear the conversations within (you), which remains forbidden in spirit. Nightfall would bring out its true shape, growing with the rising darkness and then taking control over the rest of night. We resisted its dictatorship (even though benevolent) and through democratic clamour, noises were restored. It is claimed with a certain truth that now, it is hard to come across a silent breath on the streets.
The platform suddenly came to life again on the announcement of an incoming train. A few did alight, in the middle of the night. Few moments later, it was the usual dullness all around. The waiting room was in a sleepy state with most passengers dozing when she stepped in. Her appearance reflected the tiredness of journey she had so far, arms laden with luggage and searching for a place to sit. Motioning her towards my seat, I got up. She smilingly accepted the offer without utterance of a word. Once she had a glance of the surroundings, she settled down with a book, cutting off the world, as if there wasn't any sight or sound worthy of interest. Her eyes were fixated on the pages, careful not to venture out of the bound of the letters. Her slender hands, poised on knees, guarding from intruders of the outside world. Those strands of hair did beautifully mask the true appearance, another deliberate attempt in rebutting remarks.I peered into what was visible of her across the room and it felt that hers has been a lone journey, sifting from one place to another. She had herself confined to chains of stillness and her spirit was did not protest. There was silence within her, which was misplaced in this orderly chaos. She knows it all along, doesn't fight it, nor detest it. Such strange was her entrapment which allowed no companion to fill that void with all the noise.
An hour or so had passed and my train was to arrive anytime now. Getting ready to move out towards the platform, I stared for one last time at her, as if trying to bid a proper farewell. All of a sudden, the archaic station master enters the room, and then hurried towards her. He gestured with his hands, trying to explain something. With much difficulty, he got her to understand. She spoke a different language which the master couldn't understand, neither would I. Silent was her voice, which cannot be heard amongst the noises in which I reside. She headed to her platform, her time to leave. The night was almost over and I wished for once that the day after wouldn't be forthcoming.
