A pleasant September morning, on my way to office, as usual in the little compartment of the city local train (they call it MMTS in Hyderabad) from the Chanda Nagar station. I have special affection for these quite little coaches, less people, less talks, less hassles, but the same windows, the same sky, the same breeze, the same serenity at less cost, my choice was apparent. Hyderabadis are notorious for their rage for entering the speeding vehicles, true to the tradition two young guys jumped into the train no sooner did it touch the platform, I had to brush them, who stood on the doorway to head to my calm seat away from the opening. I spread my news paper to have a quick look, there were very few passengers, and I was relaxed.
Soon, I was distracted by a teeming child’s voice which filled the blending emptiness of the coach; the MMTS trains are as neat as the city itself and always present a pleasing experience for the outsider. He must be less than 8 years, trying to have a grip on his dirty pajama, and a coloured box with soap solution; with a purple cap, he was a typical kid you can spot in any Hyderabadi lower middle class Muslim neighbourhood.
He bit a pumpkin straw which he drew himself out from the box and water droplets oozed out. His younger sister in a light red frock, was around, and he was trying to woo her, spoke Urdu, for me it looked as if he was convincing the little pretty how amazing it would be to blow it into spicy bubbles out of the soap solution. Their mother (or grandmother, as she looked quite old) was unmoved, less interested, was dozing; the thick burqua revealed only her closed eyes and she appeared very composed unmindful of the little ones in the coach.
But the boy was busy with his act.Running around, searching for a better seat, each time he took one, talking to his sister, he was so expressive, the expressiveness found less resistance in the surroundings and the sound, he was unaffected by the burden of facts and thoughts. It gave the surroundings an intimate feeling of reality, the music of the speeding engine in the front itself became an independent object, which assumed a tune which is definite, but a meaning which is indefinite, but still it gripped our minds with a sense of absolute truth.
Now they are sitting next to me, I just smiled, he did not care, his sole attention was in fixing the bottle on the side window panel and to make his sister sit on the seat next, she could hardly walk, must be 3 year old, the stinking marks of an old cold and the oil tints from the curly hair formed a line beneath the starry eyes, she squeezed the little fibre bangle on her left hand, and did not protest when he made her sit on top, they are ready now, I became curious.
The train stopped in the next station, more people poured in, now it is noisy inside, one of the passengers tried to push her aside to him, the protest was instant, the new passenger gave in.
Now the boy piped the air into the little bottle, the dusty liquid inside protested, dazzled inside, blew, a few bubbles came out, train passed a sharp right turn towards hi-tech city and the morning sun’s grandeur reflected on the little bubble with seven colours, the rainbow unveiled but brighter colours were seen on the blushing cheeks of the younger one, in her wide open eyes, and it multiplied to thousand colours at the sight of the bubble, isolated from the straw, mounting to the top. He shrugged her face firmly, to reach the straw, she squeezed it holding it with both the hands, finally a better bubble came, moved away, ascended up, up, up, the whole compartment was illuminated by the glow of their joy, two blissful souls cried, cry of freedom, ecstasy, achievement, the cry of contentment in doing the limit, the dancing bubble went up, further scaled heights to the top of the roof, hit the metal and burst, the two jubilant souls set for their next charge.
The whole compartment is silent now!
They felt their idea of life not as mere logical deduction, but as real as the air to the bird, who feels it at the every beat of its wings, not through any reasoning but through the illumination of feeling. The whole coach, mostly government employees, was watching them, the little ones were great things for us, our consciousness was never dull, the bubble was bubble, the colour was colour, the breeze was breeze and we could not be indifferent to them. We were blessed with the sense of wonder which gave those kids their right of entry into the treasure house of mystery which is the heart of existence.
Meera (the forgotten),
