Life in a metro
As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, it is likely that I am entering 2024 as the bleakest version of myself. My notes are full of half-written senten..
I began this year with a sense of confidence like never before. I ran half a marathon. I got a job I dreamt of. A chunk of my family was now in the same city as me. I hiked across some treacherous bits of the Himalayas during a wonderful Kashmir summer whispering “one step at a time” to myself. A publishing house asked me to write a book for children. ̶ ̶S̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶n̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶n̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶e̶s̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶l̶i̶p̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶h̶a̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶p̶i̶r̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶m̶o̶k̶e̶-̶f̶i̶l̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶a̶l̶c̶o̶n̶y̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶e̶x̶.̶ ̶I pressed flowers.
But there was trepidation that spoke with an all-too-familiar lilt.
In the second half, I found myself lying down in this particular portion of the bed closest to the plug point and farthest from the AC vent — all in the dark of course — hoping to find answers to impossible questions that one would only ask whilst going through impossible teenage angst.
“Explain the Oslo accords”
“Can you die of anxiety?”
“How to go sober?”
“Can you tell me what I should do with my career?”
“Is Tulsi tea good for sleep?”
“How soon will death come and consume me?”
Nobody answered. Google too sometimes drew a blank. The rancour of despair often clung to my chest, manifesting in cinematic tears and significant hair loss. I was going through my second puberty.
But for 20 minutes everyday, I realised that my sadness would take an odyssey through tunnels only known by their numbers.
Every morning, I’d stumble outside my house in a hurry, waiting for my phone to connect with my bluetooth earphones. I would then line my chapped, colourless lips with transparent goop from my blue vaseline balm box.
With elephantine steps, I’d made my way to the metro in a span of five and nine minutes based on how late I was to work. This is when the music would begin, the train would arrive and the dread would dissipate.
For 20 minutes between home and work, life would be suspended. Only occasional observational thoughts would drift and nearly every somewhat handsome stranger you’d make eye contact with would become a person of interest.
The ladies coupe would especially leave me enraptured. Clothes, shoes, bags and binds to observe. Sleepy faces to notice and the occasional lovers to note. If I am unlucky, I would be seated next to voyeurs who’d peer into my phone, reading my Twitter feed. If chance is on my side, then I’d make friends who’d ask me why I only wear a single anklet or quiz me on my book titled Bunny with a hot pink on the cover.
But on most days, the time on the metro train would allow me to close my eyes, lean back and willfully suspend reality.
Ella Fitzgerald would allow me to throw a hissy fit about men when she’d sing Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered. “Romance, finis, your chance, finis. Those ants that invaded my pants, finis,” she’d croon, making me wonder if it is indeed time for me to move on too.
Then there would be Kenya, Raja, Doja, Dua, Harris, Yesudas, Rahman, Antony, Simone and Fleetwood Mac, all queued up, waiting to talk to me.
On days with more energy, there would be stunning lines to read. Yiyun Li will tell me that only the lifeless are immune to life. Milan Kundera’s descriptions of the woman’s pubic triangle will leave me laughing and awkwardly apologising for the hysterics and Woolf’s last letter to her husband before she dies will break my heart. “Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been”.
For 20 minutes, through serpentine tracks, I would find rest, a place to laugh and just be. For 20 minutes, I’d find a way to finish my sentences.
