There is a ribbon of pain running down from my neck to my forearm. It's from pulling my suitcase off the overhead shelf; another little thing I'll remember from my train journey yesterday.
There was also the tomato soup in a paper cup that looked like it had a little beetroot in it. There was the man next to me who sneezed a lot, blaming it on the pepper in the soup. There were children who grinned at us from between blue foam seats. They wore sweaters to battle the train cold. There was the couple who opened up a jar of pickle and ate it with a spoon; the smell of oil and lemons taking over the train for an hour or more.
I will remember the conversation I had, while eating vanilla ice-cream with a wooden spoon. I'll remember trying to sleep with my scarf covering my face.
As the train drew into Mumbai and familiar stations started passing us by, it started pouring outside. I will remember looking distorted in the dark glass; tired faces against rained out window panes.
There was also the tomato soup in a paper cup that looked like it had a little beetroot in it. There was the man next to me who sneezed a lot, blaming it on the pepper in the soup. There were children who grinned at us from between blue foam seats. They wore sweaters to battle the train cold. There was the couple who opened up a jar of pickle and ate it with a spoon; the smell of oil and lemons taking over the train for an hour or more.
I will remember the conversation I had, while eating vanilla ice-cream with a wooden spoon. I'll remember trying to sleep with my scarf covering my face.
As the train drew into Mumbai and familiar stations started passing us by, it started pouring outside. I will remember looking distorted in the dark glass; tired faces against rained out window panes.
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