So, this wild-haired guy got into the bogie, maniacally brandishing a polka-dotted umbrella that was more than half his height. His dark blue shirt was dyed black by a rapidly expanding amoeba-shaped sweat stain. The expression on his face was the clincher though; a palette of rage, weariness and desperation. He brushed past and darted towards the corner of the walkway. Something about the guy suggested that he'd spent his entire life perfecting the art of standing in corners.
Anyway, he caught his breath and closed his eyes for a bit. Probably congratulating himself on finding a good spot, away from the path to the loo and right by the door. There are no fans in the walkway space so his relief was understandable, though, funnily enough, short-lived because a couple of dudes did one better and plonked themselves at the door itself, effectively cutting off the air flow. Our man's head dropped but he didn't look the type to start a rumble so nothing untoward happened, more's the pity.
The train had moved on past Kalyan and picked up speed. Blue-shirt didn't reach for his phone, which was surprising. Instead, he craned his neck, trying to either catch the breeze or watch the landscape passing by, and was disappointed on both counts. The two butt-plugs at the doorway effectively sealed the compartment off, hogging all the air for themselves while the scenery sucked ass. Poetically consistent, no? In the latter case, maybe they were doing everyone a favour because it was just kilometre after kilometre of bleak ugliness, well-represented by 1-storey houses hugging the railway tracks almost as if they were contemplating ending it all. Considering their state, it wasn't a bad idea. Every single one of them was crying out for a lick of paint. Beyond, the architectural situation was even worse. As if function had steamed so far ahead that form had given up the race and retired.
At and after Ulhasnagar, it got more drastic, if you can believe that. Imagine, if you will, that the houses are as ghastly as the ones from before. In the far distance, in the fast fading light, you can see rolling hills. Only, they are completely dominated by the mountains of trash now lining the tracks. Yep, you read that right. What blue-shirt was (and I can't imagine why) effectively looking at was trash, trashy houses and, framing the horizon, the green hills of Mother Nature laughing at us, as far away from the godawful mess as she could get. From the spread of construction, it won't be long before some building magnate wipes the glee off her face too.
Blue-shirt was writing something on a scrap of paper. From his expression, it could well have been a suicide note, but surely no man was miserable enough to want to die outside Ulhasnagar. Maybe he was taking notes. He seemed the type to churn out some ghastly bit about why there was a solitary hoarding in a field in the middle of nowhere. It was a ludicrous sight but there are other things to write about. Like the interesting, old, stone tower that suddenly appeared. Something that definitely wasn't built in the last, oh, 60 years? It seemed in no rush to disintegrate, so clearly quality construction had gasped its way out to the boondocks at some point before a final death rattle.
Eventually, we rolled into Karjat, which was as good a starting gunshot as any for every corpulent bloke to hop off the train and charge towards the vada-pav seller of their choice. A cry of "Here, piggy, piggy" would probably have seen them all halt in confusion, some ancient inner voice urging them to obey that call but drowned out by the yammering cawing of carbohydrate commerce. Our man looked like he needed sustenance on the double but he didn't even move, quite likely unwilling to give up his supposedly prime spot. A bald dude in work clothes got into the train, followed by a kid in hiking gear. They found space near blue-shirt and got into some kind of conversation as the train began moving.
To be continued.
Song for the moment: Atomic Man - Portugal. The Man
Anyway, he caught his breath and closed his eyes for a bit. Probably congratulating himself on finding a good spot, away from the path to the loo and right by the door. There are no fans in the walkway space so his relief was understandable, though, funnily enough, short-lived because a couple of dudes did one better and plonked themselves at the door itself, effectively cutting off the air flow. Our man's head dropped but he didn't look the type to start a rumble so nothing untoward happened, more's the pity.
The train had moved on past Kalyan and picked up speed. Blue-shirt didn't reach for his phone, which was surprising. Instead, he craned his neck, trying to either catch the breeze or watch the landscape passing by, and was disappointed on both counts. The two butt-plugs at the doorway effectively sealed the compartment off, hogging all the air for themselves while the scenery sucked ass. Poetically consistent, no? In the latter case, maybe they were doing everyone a favour because it was just kilometre after kilometre of bleak ugliness, well-represented by 1-storey houses hugging the railway tracks almost as if they were contemplating ending it all. Considering their state, it wasn't a bad idea. Every single one of them was crying out for a lick of paint. Beyond, the architectural situation was even worse. As if function had steamed so far ahead that form had given up the race and retired.
At and after Ulhasnagar, it got more drastic, if you can believe that. Imagine, if you will, that the houses are as ghastly as the ones from before. In the far distance, in the fast fading light, you can see rolling hills. Only, they are completely dominated by the mountains of trash now lining the tracks. Yep, you read that right. What blue-shirt was (and I can't imagine why) effectively looking at was trash, trashy houses and, framing the horizon, the green hills of Mother Nature laughing at us, as far away from the godawful mess as she could get. From the spread of construction, it won't be long before some building magnate wipes the glee off her face too.
Blue-shirt was writing something on a scrap of paper. From his expression, it could well have been a suicide note, but surely no man was miserable enough to want to die outside Ulhasnagar. Maybe he was taking notes. He seemed the type to churn out some ghastly bit about why there was a solitary hoarding in a field in the middle of nowhere. It was a ludicrous sight but there are other things to write about. Like the interesting, old, stone tower that suddenly appeared. Something that definitely wasn't built in the last, oh, 60 years? It seemed in no rush to disintegrate, so clearly quality construction had gasped its way out to the boondocks at some point before a final death rattle.
Eventually, we rolled into Karjat, which was as good a starting gunshot as any for every corpulent bloke to hop off the train and charge towards the vada-pav seller of their choice. A cry of "Here, piggy, piggy" would probably have seen them all halt in confusion, some ancient inner voice urging them to obey that call but drowned out by the yammering cawing of carbohydrate commerce. Our man looked like he needed sustenance on the double but he didn't even move, quite likely unwilling to give up his supposedly prime spot. A bald dude in work clothes got into the train, followed by a kid in hiking gear. They found space near blue-shirt and got into some kind of conversation as the train began moving.
To be continued.
Song for the moment: Atomic Man - Portugal. The Man
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