What is a conversation? A word, idea, command, order, or even flow of love, lively emotion? Our emotions transform the world of outer shell into more cherished world of sentiments. It brings to us ideas, vitalized by outlook to suit the life stuff of our nature. How can beauty be related to conversation? The purpose of a talk is the production of loveliness where as splendor in a talk has been a mere instrument and not it’s inclusive and vital worth.
It was a normal Friday evening, on my way back to home from office, the whole city flying to the nests in the dreams of a wonderful weekend, I was in no hurry, leisurely walked down the second platform of the Begumpet railway station, have to catch my MMTS train to Chanda Nagar, it was 8:15 PM, a terribly chilly December nightfall in Hyderabad. The platform was noisy; bursting of passengers waiting for the Mumbai bound Hussainsagar Express. The scattered baggages, kids running around, porters squeezing through, it was gladly colourful.
A small group of older citizens came walking behind the lane, next to the over bridge, all woolen clad, cracking some jokes, laughing at their peak pitch, one was a Sardar, others must be Telugu, but they all spoke Hindi, must have shared the same office in their prime or must be living together in a local neighbourhood, I have seen them quite a few times in the same plat form, as natural they left a buoyant feel in the tone. I walked till the end of the platform to spot a bare bench, where I use to lie down if alone, almost outside the station, the book vendor came rolling his cart, and I did not raise my head.
By 8:45 the Hussain Sagar Express arrived, thriving mob and the crawling suitcases filled the air, porters busily took orders, and few police men were walking. The train use to stop there for few minutes. People were busy settling down; friends and relatives of the travelers surrounded the bogies in large number. The long siren was given, standard announcements, the monster metal vehicle parted with the station, far-off waving of passengers to their beloved ones faded round the corner at the next turn in the track, gradually rest of the mass started melting down, deep air and an uneasy stillness filled the emptiness in the platform, my train was at 9:05, few more minutes to go.
Two seats away from mine I noticed a couple, probably in their early thirties; the man, he was assembling towering action with the hands, which I could not stop watching. He was wearing a designer shirt and a denim pants, a bulky bag on his shoulder, and the lady, sitting with her legs crossed on top of the seat was in a mediocre salwar, had dark un usually petite eyes, a tiny nose ring glittered the whole face, which supplemented the glow from her eyes, she was following his feat with ease and thrust. All the way the man’s face and hands said every thing, he was dumb, how ever, his eyes were animated, his energy was steadily sustained in its activity and she was shaking her head in answer, was composed, peaceful and serene.
They were conversing, ideas were generously flowing, the lady too was responding with her hands, both of them were dumb or at least he was, I could not make it out, but could sense the smart chat that was flowering there. With all the known lexicons in my store, with all the tuned decibels in my repertoire, in all my faculties of passion and creativity I could never be so very expressive in ideas, that smooth in chatting, that free in conversing, that pure in loving, while giving voice to my thoughts, I must confess. Their conversation was a delight to watch. I could observe them for hardly few minutes, perhaps less than five, my train arrived and I could not afford to miss it and I left those angels of inner voice in the frozen oblivion of Platform no 2.
Meera,
