Of a Railway Station, Wounds and Clouds

I first met her in a coffee shop over a cordial conversation but for some reason I like to believe that I had first met her on a railway platform. Two travelers going in different directions who got down from their respective trains only to bump into each other, smile and get together for a cup of bad railway canteen coffee.

Railway stations are strange places – crowded, alive and yet forever lonely. I personally am not the kind of person who would get down from a train amidst a journey just to stretch my legs. I guess I have always been scared of losing my luggage to actually try and get down. I would, if possible, sit up straight forever and not sleep a wink if I could when on a train journey. I have always been unsure of halts and always been uncertain of approaching stations but she was perhaps the kind of person who would follow her instincts and would get down at an odd station once in a while to try out a magazine stand or a tea stall.

Perhaps she had a story, maybe I imagined that as well. I would still like to believe that there was more to her words. I guess it is human tendency to seek some emotion in every act of life. So, could I be blamed for making a few assumptions if it suited and fell in place with the smile I painted her with, I couldn’t say.

We spoke about several things. We talked about incessant rains and how rainbows couldn’t be seen any more. We discussed the market places where butterflies bought their wings at. We shared the dreams from last night and the nights before and then talked at length about how steam from the spout of aluminum kettles on rickety tea stalls in winter mornings looked like.

I told her about how wounds should be worn on the chest like medallions and how I hated people who hide their scabs under their clothes. She told me how clouds were the only things that cushioned people when they fell. We agreed and disagreed on various subjects and laughed about silly things and finally said a goodbye after what seemed like a very short while.

Life has strange ways. I would want to believe that there is some order in the randomness of daily dealings and that we meet people and befriend them for a reason. However on other times it really feels that there is something seriously wrong with the timing of certain people walking in and out of our lives. One wishes to seek consolation by assuming that perhaps it is for the best where as deep within you do gulp a sigh down and wish that you had met earlier than when you did.

I guess we would meet some other time at some other cross road one of these days or maybe we would see each other in some other life. Maybe I would tell her things that she should have known years ago, maybe I would hold my words forever.

I shall let time be my judge. For now, this one goes to the train waiting at an unknown station, a cup of coffee, a wound by the ribs and a cloud out there somewhere to break my fall.