At the Government estate metro station, there is a somewhat new speakeasy.
A group of lonely people have come together to form a speakeasy at the Government Estate metro station.
There is food, drink, a library and a pool. There are private performances by stars. We have had Vijay Sethupathi over. He danced for us atop a rubber float in the pool. He made a lot of money that night.
We have managed to steal Kalaignar’s kannadi and display it on our glass shelves alongside other cool things like Shah Rukh’s statue made out of cigarette butts. There is also a Sathyam popcorn vending machine and chef who makes the best biry..
Oh no. What am I doing?
Of course, I am not allowed to talk about it.
Yes, I am breaking the rule. But I am writing this public account only because I am terribly confused. I was asked an important question. I am unsure about the answer. Can you help me make a decision?
Seven months ago, I developed a strange yet wonderful habit of observing all my fellow passengers. Most are usually immersed in their phones. Since I have all the screen time elsewhere, I take the time to watch, stare, gawk, ogle.
I sit in a different carriage everyday. It is a meticulous system. Monday is compartment 11- first class. Then, the ladies. Then common 1, common 2. You get the drift.
In my ogling minutes, I take time to read the messages of the people sitting next to me. I notice their feet. Are their heels cracked or in tightly tied shoes? I see handbags and those who carry them. I also know what their lunch bags carry. Especially when this one guy brings poori. That chap is very unusually chipper on Tuesday mornings. He can smell and see the leaking channa from the bag too. He doesn’t care.
I know what the regulars read, which song they like and which spot they like sitting at the most. Gayathri likes to sit in the end near the glass panel so she can lay her head on it in the mornings- the exact same place where thousands of others may have smeared their greasy faces already since the train service starts at 6 a.m. It is cute and disgusting. Shanmugam uncle likes to stand. He’s an old cranky guy who hates new year parties. If college girls enter the metro, he yells at them and tells them to dress appropriately.
In the seven months I have been riding the metro, I have seen only three others like me. Three others who watch, stare, gawk and ogle. Three others who shut their eyes and see through their nose. Three others whose names I do not know, profiles I do not see and facebook friend suggestions I never encounter.
The three first approached me when I took the brave step of sitting next to them, hoping to spy on a Thursday about 5 months ago. I learnt nothing about them. Their shoes covering their feet, their phones on silent, their bags- the ones from HP. Practically indistinguishable from me. I tried to smell their perfume, see if they had warts on their neck or rings on their fingers. Nothing. Then I tried to peek at their lunch. They did not carry any. I was annoyed. My walk to the office was going to be annoying without my spy endorphins. What was I going to do at work? Work?
The three then sat next to me one week later, sitting silently and staring. We were all doing the same. Then one hummed that eerie song Eleanor Rigby. The second joined in. When the third contributed, I understood that it was my turn next. “Ah, look at all the lonely people” was my line.
We got out of the train at Government Estate as usual, and I walked behind them. We made a sharp left turn just before the steps to the subway. The speakeasy came. No one spoke. We just watched the Titanic and held each other’s hands. It was sweet.
Ever since, I had become a member of this elite secret club. No words were spoken. Only looks and lots of staring.
Recently, I have gotten to know them better. One is apparently actor Srikanth’s ex. Another likes to smell his fingers after scratching their armpit. The last one likes to eat with both his hands.
I thought our relationship was cool. We had a rhythm. Sit down in the lounge, eat popcorn, write song lyrics, watch Modern Family or some such and leave.
Something strange happened to me today though, the third person came up to me and told me that they had each sacrificed a kidney of their loved one to run this speakeasy. “We donate kidneys to alcoholic celebrities in need. How else do you think we paid for Vijay Sethupathi, idiot?” that person asked.
I was pretty appalled. How could they involve me in such black market organ racket? Was I not a dignified human being with a stable job?
I am a respectable member of my community. I like eating fruits and vegetables. I run and even wash my hands and feet before eating outside. I don’t spill on my clothes, I write back to emails and I like tweeting about tv shows in the most useless manner. I am even learning about paying taxes now. How dare they?
But also, which will be the best kidney — Amma? Anusha? Vasanth? Maybe the Tuesday poori fellow?
