Old Queen

College was over for the day. I sat alone at the Park Street Metro station, staring at the blinking seconds on one of the hanging digital clocks. A small lady clad in a printed saree walked down to where I sat. I shifted, giving her space to sit. Then I went back to the blinking seconds.

“Tumi college e poro, na chakri koro? (Are you a student, or are you doing a job?) ”

I looked around startled. Co-passengers, that too strangers, never really spoke at the metro stations. They maintained a stiff neck and a distant look in their eyes, as if it were the rule. Entire stations and those underground trains seemed to be carrying the load of a million mechanical beings, burdened by the woes of existence and worn down by time.

The lady was looking at my face, waiting for a reply. I wondered if I should talk to her. She had a certain something about her that appealed to me. Maybe it was the warmth in her voice that reminded me of childhood afternoons spent at my aunts’. The sudden appearance of this motherly figure made me a little inquisitive. I agreed to go with the flow.

“College e pori (I am a college-goer)”.

“Kon College? (which college?)”

“St. Xavier’s”

“O.. Amar o ekta meye ache.. Tomar moto dekhte.. ok Netaji Nagar College e bhorti korechi.  Arts porchhe... (Even I have a daughter. She looks similar to you. I have admitted her to Netaji Nagar College. She is studying Arts.)

That’s five minutes from where I live! I exclaimed in my mind. She went on:

“Durey bhorti korini. Rasta  ghaat kharap. Bhoy lagey.. Tar upor amra toh gorib.. lekhapora sikhini ami...o nije nijei porey, master der sahajyo niye... Sheyi kon chhotobelae or baba maara jaye...r sosur bari te thakte daeni amader...tai baaper barite meye k niye thekechi...Ami ei office e esechilam..bari giye ranna korbo.... (The roads are unsafe, so I didn’t admit her in a far-off college. We are poor. I am illiterate. I cannot guide her. She studies whatever her teachers tell her. Her father passed away when she was very young. My in-laws drove us out and I took shelter in my parents’ house.... I had come to office here. I’ll cook after I reach home...)”, she trailed off.

Some of her words, I understood, some I didn’t. I imagined, a girl like me - without the love of a father, without the care of her grandparents, struggling and studying. Her mother, with matted hair, a faded bag and worn out slippers – leaving for work early in the morning, everyday. She had grown old, but her spirit was unbroken. I hoped her daughter respected her mother for her devotion and hard work. I hoped she had learned the hard lessons of life bravely. I hoped she was growing into the lady her mother wants her to be. And suddenly I felt so privileged, that I almost felt guilty of my good fortune. Beside me, she went on speaking her heart out, thinking perhaps, that today she wasn't alone – today she was travelling back home with her daughter.

Then the metro finally arrived. A gathering of silent dummies stood up all across the platform and started walking towards the still-shut metro gates. The chirrupy lady beside me jumped up. To me, she and I seemed to be the only living beings in this sea of dead.

Only they weren't dead. They were silently carrying the burden of their own stories – not agreeing to open up, lest they be judged by society or be tested in some other way. One day, their stories will be lost to Time.