A man is seated in front of me in jam packed local to Karjat. It is about 11pm and the city is about to catch a breather. It is a time where younger ones and young adults with clear minds usually go to sleep. And for anxious hawks, the night starts wearing on from that point until whatever time their cluttered psyches allow their fractured existence to hibernate.
An outstation train running parallelly is gaining momentum as it is entering a platform paved with smooth kotastones. All the dust of the day on the platform is being blown away by this entrance. In blue and bright interiors of sleeper coaches relaxed passengers are seen playing cards and leaving this crazy city. A circle of men is discussing something in a large vacant area of a coach with plastic containers and bags as their seats.
In my local, it's not so bright and airy. Tired and sweaty bodies wish to pop out of this tight box, but only at right station.
I can't stop observing the man who is one of the most ordinary grave-faced anonymous lower middle class city dwellers. He is so easy to forget. There is nothing flashy about him. Fiftyish, dark, thin and short with cheap but working shirt and pant and plastic slippers. Small dirty nails on toes and fingers. His head is full of coarse, dry and grayed hair which are well combed. Most striking feature of his personality is the grave eyes that are small and set deep inside. One could almost feel the cheekbones and sinking cheeks. One look at his serious face and eyes tells everything that man has went through. Yet he is so calm and agnostic that I feel a surge of pity and tears building up in me as I keep watching him.
How am I going to explain his existence to myself? Why is he living? What is his life? What is he living for? If he dies here and now there is nothing that can fetch more than 1000 Rs. A 1000 Rs packet of a man. What is the meaning of his life? I almost feel ashamed of my ambitions, extravagance and my ideals.