The world around me, its baffling motion, makes me dizzy. The trees move past the windows, the houses never stay put in their places, the people keep drifting with the wind; all the while the motion of this world tries to ridicule me
Once upon a time in a kingdom far far away,” so begins the story. The intent eyes grow wider as the woman opens her mouth and the magic words flow out gracefully. I wonder how many times the kid has listened to these words. Did she ever wonder where this far-away kingdom is, or when exactly once-upon-a-time is? Maybe she has every word of the story imprinted in her heart, the engraving so deep, it’s deeper than the Gulf of Panama. How deep is the Gulf of Panama, anyway?
“Please tell me the story again, mommy,” the intent-looking girl prods her mother adamantly. The story must have ended with a happily-ever-after, I think sardonically. Where can you find these three words knitted carefully except on the very last page of a happy story?
You must be thinking I’m a cynic, and that I’ll most probably oppose to that. That I’ll tell you I’m rather a realist, or go on and befuddle you with a sad story from my life that has made me the kind of person I am today. Hold on, I’m not going to do that. I’m not being a cynic, nor a realist. I’m a ghost. Yes, you heard it right. I am a ghost. And yes, that very well means that I am dead. I’m not going to tell you how I died though, for I really don’t remember how I died. And I don’t intend to remember. I mean, don’t wise men always warn you not to dwell in the past? I’m a ghost who tends to live in the present. Well...I’m a ghost who apparently lives in a train that moves unabatedly from one place to another. “A body in motion tends to be in motion,” my Science teacher’s words ring in my head. “How?” I had questioned, “A train stops at far too many places.” I had witnessed her stern gaze as my classmates shared glances and giggles. She would be happy to see the continuum of this train, its routine motion, despite the stops. It keeps moving all the while I keep sitting in this blue-cushioned seat. I remain affixed to this seat. The world around me, its baffling motion, makes me dizzy. The trees move past the windows, the houses never stay put in their places, the people keep drifting with the wind; all the while the motion of this world tries to ridicule me.
The woman and the child have gotten off. There they go and drift along to the people they love, the house they belong to, the windowsills that proudly hold their gleaming photographs. I can’t help but smile as I think of their contagious smiles. I have a beautiful smile, just so you know. Not that you can see it, or anyone else can for that matter.
I’ve seen all kinds of smiles—from smiles with moustaches to smiles without, from a gentle curve on the lips to a wide grin that showcases the twinkle on every tooth, the cat’s purr-fect smug grin.
“Excuse me.” Someone needs to walk past someone, I think past the smiles and the cat’s grins. “Excuse me.” When I hear the same voice twice in a row, I turn right to see who wants to pass. There I see an old man sitting, a shortish man with small eyes, as if someone has just painted two thin lines on his round face. Chinese, says the right lobe of my brain. Korean, the left lobe echoes.
“Excuse me.” After uttering those words for the third time and with some annoyance, the man sighs and moves forward to another empty seat. The Chinese man (I listen to my right lobe) seems to be captivated by something. He is looking steadily at something. There is nothing in this train to be amazed at, to fix your eyes upon. There are only windows, blue seats the fabric on which has started to tear, and the screen that shows you where the next stop is and the stops after that are. Wait, the screen! I follow his gaze and realise what’s been keeping him intent. It’s the screen, the letters changing every few minutes. I’ve spent long enough on this train to be able to tell you what stops come after what. Okay, the names are weird, but I remember anyway. Well, not this man, I figure. He doesn’t know the names and he doesn’t want to miss his stop.
As the train stops at a weird-named place, a bunch of youngsters barge in. They’re 15, I can tell. Their distinct chatter, the shrieks they echo, the words they flaunt, they’ve got to be 15. A few of them walk past the old man and continue with their teenage ways.
“Did you see how was she looking at me the whole time? says the flirtatious one.
“Biology? I slept during that class.” The backbencher.
“I want Gucci for my birthday.” The fashion-stylist.
“x and y and derivatives.” Okay, the studious one.
This derivatives talk makes a man—who has had his head buried in the newspaper all the while—take a peek. The woman sitting by the window, who has been sleeping for quite a while, is wide awake now. Fifteen is quite an age, I smile. I wonder what I was like when I was 15. Is the old man wondering the same? Was he the studious one? I take a long, hard look at him. There’s something gripping about him—his unfaltering gaze. He’s wearing a hat and is quite well-dressed. His fists are clenched, his jaws tight, the creases of his face are rigid. He has the apprehensive look of a soldier. Maybe he’s a soldier. He might have fought some wars in one of the provinces in China. I’ve heard China has many provinces. I once asked a Chinese girl where she was from. “China,” she had replied. “Yeah, but which state?” I had prodded. “Even if I tell you the name, you won’t remember,” she had smiled. She was right, I don’t remember the name. Only if I could go and ask him which province he’s from. Now that I’m a ghost, maybe I’ll remember the name.
“What’s in a name?” a bespectacled teenager smirks. “Names aren’t who we are,” she continues.
“Shakespeare,” a boy sitting beside her yawns. The rest help overwhelm the compartment with a reverberation of giggles. I don’t know what there is to laugh at. Teenagers, you can never understand them. I wish one of them would ask the old man where he’s heading to.
“East,” shouts the studious one. “East…Easter. It’s Easter,” she chirps proudly as she scribbles in her notebook. A word-puzzle, I presume.
As the train comes to a halt, the teenagers get off the train leaving us in utter silence. I feel like the earth has resumed rotating, the woman sways back and forth in her blissful sleep. I like the conundrum of motion—the periodic movement of the train, the ubiquitous flow of the people and the whooping of the wind. The houses by the window never stand still, the letters on the screen keep changing, and the people never stay in one place. There’s something comforting in motion, in the drift of the winds, the gentle footsteps of the people, the fall of the leaves, the harmonic flow of the syllables. Everything is in motion, except for me and the old man. Could it be that he finds solace in his steady gaze? Only if he were to turn his head and see the houses and the trees and the bridges pass by. Only if I could tell him how comforting the prospect of motion is.
“Lichtenbergstrasse,” the screen beeps. I mean, who would call a place Lichtenbergstrasse? As soon as these letters appear on the screen, the old man sighs and tries to stand. The old man moved! I feel like I just saw a waft of wind over still waters, or a twig twinge in the depths of wilderness. He stands up gently and walks slowly toward the exit door. Lichtenbergstrasse, so this is where he lives.
Outside, he’s greeted by the whooping wind that carries him gracefully. Another family waits for him, another smile, and another photograph. Maybe his grand-daughter is keeping herself afloat for another happily-ever-after story. As he drifts slowly by the window, he turns his head and looks straight through the window right into my eyes. Has the world stopped rotating again? No, it’s his unwavering gaze, fixed on me for a fraction of a second. The earth keeps rotating as I’m left dumbfounded by his deep stare, deeper than the Gulf of Panama. How deep is the Gulf of Panama, anyway?
- Barsha Chitrakar
