the commute

Fifteen minutes into a traffic snarl, with the two o' clock sun and no rain, not a bit of rain: impossible not to despair. This only time, this transit, when no one knows or cares in particular, about anything in particular you might have to say or withhold, this only safe pause - the time is ripe to cry. Weeksful of woe begin to shrink and condense on brain. Squeezing it into necessity - must let it out now, before home turf hits. Kátharsi̱, tó̱ra!

If it weren't for the female's pursestraps which must fall on you again and, no matter how many times you twitch and cluck, and again. And then a tap on the arm, you stiffen, of all the nerve- if that wasn't- who does she- But turn and she's not even fifteen, the girl, clearly new to the concept of makeup - one can tell from the immense zeal. And she's asking - are those phone or ipod headphones? - and for a second, the eagerness - you haven't seen anything quite like it in a long time; the eagerness of each hair in place, of the glitter on the nail - takes you quite aback. But, mp3 player, you mumble, you get them here. White lies are usually held in contempt but one look at the smile that greets this, and you think, hell, anything to keep that going. And there's no reason for you to grin like that. Especially since a minute ago Grief, with hands folded in quiet anticipation, waited to enter - was now, coughing a little but taking it more than sportingly, overall.

Like the time, two nights ago while walking the dog, this thing cried out, auntiee! The -ee rising into a supersonic wail. Two probably, at most three, that kid at the window above - belly and elbows poking out from between the rods, hanging there in her bloomers: cuter than a monkey but not the kind to make you reach immediately for the cheek. The kind that cracks your heart open just a little. Ki, I ask, ki?

And ensues a most informative little chat, her being instructed by shyer, older relatives on proper questions and I, bawling from below, with a restless dog pulling jeans apart. Was dinner done yet, was I going to study, what were the dogs called, did I listen to Dev? Had my hair been an inch shorter, I'd probably still have passed of as Dada, but Auntiee it was for now - and grateful, I, for the passport it gave me.

It's impossible to begin to list the injustices. Of the people you've loved (and for what?) and the beliefs you'll always hold (and why?), of how the world refuses to retain a jot of what you looked forward to (and so what?) - impossible for the old train to break down, even though wheezing to its death, when you're hardwired as a sensible little girl - no longer little, never little.

But sometimes - stepping off the bus, bye bye, she waved back frantically, while reassuring Abba on the phone that she had indeed made biryani for him and it was right there, bye bye - 

the damndest little things make your day.