Stand Clear, Doors Closing
I place the white 'music maker' marked R in my right ear and the corresponding L in my left to drown out the fat man's inane talk. I can still hear him. He talks of a fruitless search for some exotic soundtrack at Sanity. Why didn't I sit somewhere else? I shake the silver Nano that's in my hand. The 'shuffle' lands on Craig David's Fill Me In. I think about giving it another shake. I don't.
A Punjabi boy and his little sister are running away from their mother on the platform. The mother is in a yellow ochre dress, the kind that makes a woman look like she's wearing pants and a long scarf is trailing her. She grabs her children in one swooping motion, with her right arm and hand. The kids appear to be screaming. Craig David breaks into chorus.
People are starting to mill about on the other side, on their feet and eager. I get up as well, glad to be in air-conditioned luxury very shortly, as I spot the Tangara. I join a crowd, one of many, waiting for the doors to open.
I stand behind him, close enough to smell sweat and cigarettes, matching the dirt patches on his fluorescent yellow polo and navy blue King Gees. I look up at his gel-styled blonde hair and strangely, not a piece out of place. Every wave, every strand, still intact. In precise alignment and unruffled by the day's work. Even the two rat's tails dangling along the back of his neck seem deliberate.
The temperature drops the moment the doors slide apart. We let the Punjabi mother push her pram in first, her brats tugging at her sides. I spot a few empty seats upstairs. He remains standing. A schoolgirl gives up her seat. I climb the stairs and sit down. I can't see him anymore.
The mother takes a seat, resting an arm on the pram. I hear the beginnings of a guitar strumming and immediately recognise Jewel's Standing Still. The kids have escaped their mother's claw and are running up and down the upstairs aisle. The girl is screaming her lungs out. I can feel the carriage's collective wrath. The mother remains seated. Dejected.
I take deep breaths and turn up the volume. The girl's shrieking has jumped an octave. We come to a stop and the mother swoops up her children effortlessly once again, hopping out on to the platform with pram in tow. I sigh a sigh of relief as I hear the ever-familiar "Please stand clear, doors are closing" announcement.
I move over to the window. He's jumped out too. The wind is blowing his rat's tails to the left. He's carrying a grey CD Walkman in his right hand. His headphones are black.
A Punjabi boy and his little sister are running away from their mother on the platform. The mother is in a yellow ochre dress, the kind that makes a woman look like she's wearing pants and a long scarf is trailing her. She grabs her children in one swooping motion, with her right arm and hand. The kids appear to be screaming. Craig David breaks into chorus.
People are starting to mill about on the other side, on their feet and eager. I get up as well, glad to be in air-conditioned luxury very shortly, as I spot the Tangara. I join a crowd, one of many, waiting for the doors to open.
I stand behind him, close enough to smell sweat and cigarettes, matching the dirt patches on his fluorescent yellow polo and navy blue King Gees. I look up at his gel-styled blonde hair and strangely, not a piece out of place. Every wave, every strand, still intact. In precise alignment and unruffled by the day's work. Even the two rat's tails dangling along the back of his neck seem deliberate.
The temperature drops the moment the doors slide apart. We let the Punjabi mother push her pram in first, her brats tugging at her sides. I spot a few empty seats upstairs. He remains standing. A schoolgirl gives up her seat. I climb the stairs and sit down. I can't see him anymore.
The mother takes a seat, resting an arm on the pram. I hear the beginnings of a guitar strumming and immediately recognise Jewel's Standing Still. The kids have escaped their mother's claw and are running up and down the upstairs aisle. The girl is screaming her lungs out. I can feel the carriage's collective wrath. The mother remains seated. Dejected.
I take deep breaths and turn up the volume. The girl's shrieking has jumped an octave. We come to a stop and the mother swoops up her children effortlessly once again, hopping out on to the platform with pram in tow. I sigh a sigh of relief as I hear the ever-familiar "Please stand clear, doors are closing" announcement.
I move over to the window. He's jumped out too. The wind is blowing his rat's tails to the left. He's carrying a grey CD Walkman in his right hand. His headphones are black.