A FEW OLDIES: WAITING FOR 57

It was only the smells. If only I could suspend my olfactory senses for sometime, I’d be in heaven.  I could close my eyes and shut out the light, I could keep the sounds out with my headphones, I had a comfortable chocolaty taste in my mouth and the blankets they give, kept me warm and cosy.  I could of course pull the blankets over my face to try and keep the smells out but then it wouldn’t cover my toes and you know the thing about cold toes. They are acutely uncomfortable.

So it was only the smells.  I even had side lower.  Of course, nobody prefers the side berths.  But I do.  I love side lower.  Side upper wasn’t here yet.  So I had the whole side to myself. It was only the smells.

They were sort of an unwelcome link to a world I could never really figure out. 

I was 56.  57 was side upper.

At each station, there was a slight feeling of trepidation as I wondered if I’d have to give up putting my legs up and find room for 57’s luggage.  As we swept past each station, I unconsciously heaved a sigh of relief, ever so slight, but it was there nevertheless. A little callous perhaps, but I hoped he wouldn’t turn up, that he’d miss the train, be caught up in a traffic jam, fall down and hurt his leg…well…not that I’m a bad person, I don’t like discomfort, you know.  And I was nicely settled here for about two days, from one end of India to the other, well almost the other.

It was only the smells.

I now realise, I imagined 57 to be a he.  Strange but true, I’d never imagine a she 57, so to speak.  Somehow, I realised, I give male personifications to the slight irritating things of life that you, all the same, have to go through with.  Now Freud would have something very interesting to say about that, I reflected.  I might even be having some of those complexes with the nice Greek (or are they Roman?) names; you know them- Oedipus, Electra and all the rest. 

57 would be a man for certain.  If I’m lucky he would have a backpack which he would shove somewhere and go sleep on his side upper and not bother me at all. 

Well, as long as I am imagining, he might as well be a little more interesting, I mused. He could be an artist or a writer, something of the relic of the Beat generation – an icon and an iconoclast, like Kerouac maybe. (I had a crush on Kerouac ever since On the Road). He’d have tired but lively eyes that shine like the dying embers of the sun, I imagined, warming up to my topic. He’d wear a loose T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans, actually faded not these acid fades that insult aesthetics that you find everywhere from a Levi’s store to a street corner.  Faded, with splotches of colour that speak of endless hours spent in a studio with a skylight that lets in grimy rays, lighting up canvases painted in daubs, canvases painted out to perfection with not one thick stroke, canvases painted in fiery reds and oranges, canvases painted in greys and blues. He would sit every evening on his rickety couch leaning on stacks of Marquez, Ginsberg, Marai, perusing their volumes, finding his own expression in his art and sculpture.  Or maybe, he would be just content to watch, with his tired ebony eyes, just watch and wonder, but not one languid action of his would disturb anything, change anything, he would be content to watch.  

There would be stories in his eyes, tales that would fill pages if he so desired, the taut alertness and the charming insouciance resting harmoniously and holding themselves together so well, you felt the strangeness of it instinctively.

Maybe we’d be reading the same book and start talking about our shared loves. Or talk about the bad rail food – always a brilliant conversation starter; shared hatreds being causes of friendships, as Tocqueville said, aren’t restricted to politics alone. Shared hatreds are even stronger than shared loves oddly enough, I realized. But of course my Kerouac reading artist wouldn’t be quite as bothered about something as plebeian as rail food, I reasoned smartly. He would be quite above those silly necessities of life. Lancelot wasn’t as bothered about broken teeth as Don Quixote, now was he?  

So then, how would we start talking? Common book, best bet.

Oh my God, you like Saramago? My favourite! Wow, a kindred soul; Seeing was my favourite. Mine’s got to be Stone Raft. Yeah I love that one too. Okay.

Uh-oh. Dead end. Damn.

Er… what else do you read? Kafka, Ginsberg… you know. I loved The Trial; and Howl, of course. Of course.

Uh-oh. Another one.

Right. Now I get it. We can’t agree on everything. So we’ve got to disagree. But how do I talk to someone who disagrees with me liking Trial and Howl? Tricky. And I shouldn’t look too interested. So I’d take up my book and read. End of story. Kerouac artist leaves. Poof.

Damn.

Yeah, I get it. We’ve got to agree of course, but we’ll have to discuss about it. Long conversations about Kafka et al. But then, any guy who’s reading Saramago would absolutely detest being interrupted and forced into conversation. Uh-oh.

Nevertheless, I am undaunted - the Gordian knots that tie up reality into intricate layers of finesse and crudeness are sliced through by the Alexander of my dreams. Dreams are by definition of course, unreal, but the best dreams are the ones where everything is unreal – perfect- and yet you do not realise it is a dream. After a point the perfection starts grating on you.

But a tinge of reality can send you straight back to your opium den, your marijuana, your own personal brand of addiction, and reality aftertastes last long enough for you not to want it for a very long time.  You want to stay in the world you control, in the perfection of your imagination. Occupational hazard that comes with living in printed pages and celluloid mostly, I suppose. Reality is a small price to pay.

If only one could conjure up sensory deprivation tanks and stay in them forever and ever.  But the blanket that smells acutely of moth balls, the blue rexine reminiscent of the ‘60s, the constant commuting of the vendors up and down the aisle accompanied buy the veritable bevy of discordant odours, the incessant vague chatter that your headphones only just manage to push to the background, the soft rocking of the train – these will have to be borne with fortitude.

I have been talking with my Kerouac artist for a while now. I think a smile is lingering on my lips. If I open my eyes, I know they will be shining ever so slightly.

The train is rocking gently – back and forth, slower now and coming to a steady halt – so slowly that is almost escapes me.

I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.

My seat. This one – 57. Do you mind?

Oh. Of course not. Do make yourself comfortable.

I am sorry to have woken you.

It’s alright. I was awake.

A young man. Personable. Late twenties perhaps. Led Zeppelin jersey. Unruly black hair. East of Eden tucked under an arm.

I smile and settle down with The Great Gatsby. The cool glass presses against my temples. My feet are drawn up and I wrap myself in my blanket snugly. I talk to my Kerouac artist.