On a Train to Nowhere in Particular

On a train to nowhere in particular, I sat next to a peculiar lady. I thought I might stare out the window the whole journey through and I didn’t realize till a tear fell onto my lap that I had been crying.

I could feel the lady next to me looking at me and I twisted myself so my shoulder covered my face and maybe then she would look away but I felt her eyes pierce through the fabric of my sweater, searching me.

Finally, she spoke and her voice was as smooth as butter. It seemed to glide off her tongue floating sweetly in the air, warming my ear buds. She asked a question but it wasn’t one I was expecting.

“Can I tell you a personal story?” she asked. It was then that I turned to look at her. When I first entered the train, I had barely looked at her, only observing the wrinkles on her face and deducing that she was an old lady who probably thought the younger generation ‘was worse than before’.

Looking in her eyes now, I saw depth – a gentility I had never seen before in eyes sagging with age. I could tell those eyes had seen great joy and great pain.

She raised her brow quizzically and I realized I had been staring this whole time without offering an answer. “Yes please” I said politely, adjusting myself enough to see her without straining my neck but never really facing her.

Thus, her story begun. She was born in the year 1973 to a trader mother and a plumber father but she had dreams – very lofty dreams. She didn’t want to be rich. No. She didn’t want to be famous either, no. She wanted to be remembered for the remarkable clothes she designed.

So, she set out on this quest and with each sketch and needle work she poured herself out. She did this till 1994 when the heart took the fore and now, she wanted to be loved. Three children and a husband later, the sewing machine and sketching paper were packed and placed on a shelf she could barely reach. For fifteen years, she mothered and she ‘wifed’ and she was happy for it.

That was all until 15th May 2009 when her heart did not return from work early. In fact, he did not return at all. It wasn’t till the morning that she was told that on his way from work, while crossing the road to board the bus, he had been hit by a speeding motorcycle crashing him into an oncoming vehicle. He died at the scene.

“The sky was grey. I could barely see straight. It was as if at any moment I might die from pain. Morning, noon and night I would do nothing but to cry and when I wasn’t crying, I was brooding. I hated my life. One night I was brooding as usual when I overheard my children. One asked what they would do now that they didn’t have parents and then the other said she didn’t know. Then I thought ‘I am here. I am alive. Why are they talking like I’m dead?’ Then it dawned on me that I was dead. I had become a shell of myself.”

The next morning, she stood on the old kitchen stool and pulled down the box that held her dreams from many years ago. “With every sketch and every stitch, I felt alive again. I felt as though I could breathe again, see again. I felt pain but I also felt joy. It wasn’t easy but even the pain of hurdles spurred me on.” As she poured herself into her craft, she saw her children through school with each now pursuing their own dreams.

“I’m sharing this story with you because when I was little, I wanted to be remembered. When I was older, I wanted to be loved. In all these things, nothing was ever as clear as it could have been. I have felt what you feel now. I saw you when you walked in. I know a brooder when I see one. I know it feels like you cannot see beyond yourself right now but there’s a fighter within; someone great and powerful inside, waiting to come out. You just need to dig deep and find her and when you do, you hold her tightly and fight for her desperately.” There was a glint in her eye as she spoke that set my heart on fire. It was like an energy transferred with every word.

I was facing her fully now, captivated by the story. “What do you want now?” I asked. She looked confused. “You said you wanted to be remembered and then you wanted to be loved. What do you want now?”

“To be happy” she said solemnly, “I just want to be happy”.

The train came to a halt and I lunged forward, grabbing the seat to keep from falling. I looked out the window and at the station, in bold letters was written ‘Lot Station’. “I have to get down here” I exclaimed.

“You do?” the woman asked, surprised by the sudden exclamation. “Yes!” I declared emphatically with a grin. She smiled proudly. I picked up my luggage with my script buried deep inside and descended from the train just before it pulled out of the station. I stood to watch it leave, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the peculiar lady. I didn’t. Then I

realized I didn’t know her name either.

Turning from the station to the city, I saw the giant buildings looming, threatening to scare me away. A sign read “Welcome to Lot City, Where Dreams Become Reality”. I clutched my suitcase tighter, squeezing the handle into my palm, releasing sweet pain. There was something in me and by God this city would know me because now, I wanted to be remembered.