Intercity Diaries, Pt 1

 He took out his grey earpods and stuck them in, deep. He was now seated in the train, in a car that by its looks seems to have been coupled onto the others ages ago and repeatedly dragged from each end, back and forth, for hundreds of miles, every day. The unreserved cars on the Intercity were packed with people as usual, but fortunately, no one could be seen standing anywhere and a few of the three-seater chairs had only two occupants. He could eventually find a seat, and retired to his favourite music.

Indian classical. Not many people are into that. Especially not people his age.    

The train hesitated to leave Trivandrum Central. It was already two minutes past five-thirty and the crowd was not in the mood for a languid, laidback journey. Youths, probably here because one of their friends' sister got married, stood in the vestibule after realising how late they had arrived to secure a seat. The crowd clears after Kollam, someone consoled them. Proud government officers with their glistening blue ID cards asserted their punctual arrival, leg-on-leg, sitting comfortably on the edges of the old seats, hoping their importance would drive the train faster. Somewhere, a police officer was offered a seat by a young girl who wished instead to stand in the doorway with her boyfriend.

By the time the boy had taken in all of what was happening around him, the train had left and was slithering out of the city, waiting for the opportunity to pick up speed. He glanced at his phone. 17:37. Another four hours until his destination.

He recalled his journey that morning for some reason. He had hurried out of the house, his stomach mostly empty, and bought himself a sleeper to Varkala on the Trivandrum Mail. Near the seat he found sat an elderly Brahmin. He did not look a day younger than eighty. He noticed what the boy was playing on Spotify, and struck up a conversation about Carnatic music. He told the boy, like a proud grandfather who had fought a war, how he listened to G N Balasubramaniam in the flesh, how he shook M S Subbulakshmi's hand, and how he had procured the autograph of Madurai Mani Iyer. The 19-year-old had never been so piqued by a man ever before.

Before he knew it, the train had brought him back to Varkala, where he was earlier that day. He checked the app on his phone, learning that the train was running 12 minutes late; actually a handsome kind of punctuality for this shaky contraption. As some got up and alighted the Intercity, a few got on. A noticeable figure among them was this other boy in a white shirt. He looked out of place in that coach, surrounded by travellers bored out of their wits. He almost looked happy and content.

Seeing him fumble for a seat with his bags still on his body, our original character led him to the seat right next to his. He smiled and sat down. He realised how good he looked for someone doomed to take the Intercity. As soon as he sat down, he took out a pair of earphones and stuck them in, proceeding to connect the other end to his phone. Our hero, now with his ears free, slid his phone back into his pocket and attempted to strike up a conversation.

    "Where are you getting down?"

The rattling bogey assured him that his charisma would fail. His new friend did not hear him. A while later, he lifted his eyes from his phone and looked around, and saw his neighbour trying to communicate. He promptly pulled his earphones out, stopped what he was doing and started to talk.

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This story was interrupted as the mental peace of its author was disturbed at Kollam Junction railway station by an influx of loud women. To be continued.