Old friend of the new girl

by Damini Solanki (India)

Making a local connection India

I was trying to move faster taking short yet quick steps. The floor of the the railway station was wet because of sudden shower of the rain. My heart started beating faster as I glanced nervously at my silver wrist watch which showed the time as 11:54 p.m. My steps became quicker as I moved forward and my mind started counting the numbers in backword direction: 60,59,58... Sandwiched between an uncle who looked in his fifties and a young beautiful woman walking in her heels, I tried to move forward with all my energy wondering why were the Mumbai railway stations so crowded at night. As far as my eyes could see, I read the LED indicator displaying '11:55- platform number 4- Churchgate to Borivali'. Running towards platform number 4, I saw the train moving slowly in the opposite direction. Finally I got the hold of the door and I moved in the train. This was my routine from last 32 days when I decided to move from Bhopal to Mumbai for a journalism internship in a newspaper. I glanced through the ladies coach which was mostly empty. The rain water coming through the window made more than half of the seats covered with water. I took a dried seat beside a young girl wearing black kurti and beautiful jhumka who had her earphones plugged in. A lady police officer was standing near the door looking outside Two middle-aged women on my left were laughing so loud that I wondered where do these women get so much of energy from. In the last month I met hundreds of new people but didn't actually got a friend. In this crowded and chaotic city a part of me always felt lonely. Although at the end of the day I used to realize that I was working hard and my ambitious and pushy self was gruntled, wanted to learn more. I started thinking about the story which I covered today- a four storeyed building in Dongri collapsed because of bad weather. I went to the hospital which was as crowded as the chickens in a poultry farm. People were grieving for their closed ones. A woman wearing a black burkha whom I approached to enquire lost her husband and both the children. Her face was pale and eyes were blank. She lost everything and when I offered her some water all she said was ' I can't feel anything'. I didn't know what to do so I took my bag, walked till the railway station and went to the office to file the story. The silence in the ladies coach was irritating me, making me question: Does anything actually matters? The by-lines I am receiving, the hard work I am giving in my work, the desire to be power-hungry, does it all makes sense? I closed my eyes and thought maybe it's just the people whom we live for. It took me some minutes and when I opened my eyes I saw that whole coach was empty. An announcement was made 'Last station- Borivali' and I got up from my seat and moved toward the door. The rain stopped but I could feel a little bit of drizzle on my face, the smell of mud was salubriously pleasant and the cold wind passing through my hair made me realize that the best time of my day is spent travelling in the train. This 45 minutes journey from my office to my home make me memorize all the good-bad memories and gives me a boost to wake up in the morning next day with the same energy. The train slowed down, I read 'Borivali' written with violent and red color on a white board. I got down on the station and turned around. The train stayed there for another 60 seconds, I kept on looking thinking that these local trains have thousands of secrets with them so why can't I consider them as my friend? At that moment this new girl in a topsy-turvy city didn't felt lonely. The train started moving slowly, just how our lives moves on. I turned around to move toward the exit, at that moment I felt nothing.