Platform no 8 

Waiting isn’t my strongest forte. At least not waiting in its purest form. What is the purest form?

Blinking hard till the image comes into focus and repeating the blur, de blur exercise , drowning in the incoherent sound, looking at the loose stitches on my sandals, noticing a far away vividly painted building. Going off in a thought spiral, being brought back by a loud sound. 

That’s waiting in its purest form and it sickens me. So I bring a book along. 

I read, completely arrogant to my surroundings until I hear the gush of a hose. A man was cleaning the railway tracks, I watch him for a while and I am startled by a groaning noise from hell. 

An old, pale blue engine was trying to connect to a stationary train. It connected but it couldn’t move. The sky was darkening and the engine tried harder, in panic mode . When I was giving up all hope and the sky gave way to a light rain, it honked. It was the happiest sound I heard that day. It honked and cut through the rain, lighting it up, as it sliced through it.

Victories. My phone rings,” Pappa”. The one man who has all the time in the world for me who I don’t have time for. I smile, sadly and lift the call. We talk excitedly for half an hour, about trains. The guy loves trains. The sky darkened to a sherbet red now and the rain was anything but light.
I had to shout on the phone to be heard. He hung up, wishing me good luck. The Rajdhani eased on to the platform in that gruesome setting. A metal beast,slowly making its advance, is enough to make a heart falter. 

In the two minutes it took me to get on board, I was drenched. I found my seat. My wait was an impure one but it let me keep my sanity intact. 


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