Of tears and transit

She stood at the door, her left arm linked to the pole, like how most women like to travel in the train when it’s pleasant outside. There was a slight drizzle accompanied by a strong wind, the wind rustling her hair while she was talking in Marathi to someone over the phone; her eyes glistened against the light of the passing scenery, then came the tears and the muffled sounds made by the attempt to hold back soft sobs, simultaneously ending the call abruptly. I stood right behind her, extremely conscious of the woman in front of me who was undoubtedly crying. To console or not to, the debate had already begun with zest in my head. The train halted at the station when a flower vendor got in, bringing along with her the heady fragrance of mogras and champas. The flowers, the rain, the sweat; none of it took my eyes or mind off the woman who was crying in the train. My eyes flitted to another lady leaning against the edge, her eyes told me she saw what I was seeing, in a language unknown to me till then, I understood that she did too.  Spontaneity took over me and I offered the lady at the door some water, when she refused I gave her hand a squeeze as though trying to indicate to her that it was okay. She managed a meek smile before turning away, sobbing a little more and getting off at her stop.

This is just one of those instances where I have seen women breaking down in the train, on the platform seated on benches and even on the bridges near railway platforms. These breakdowns are often accompanied by harrowed sounding conversations over the phone, probably with the boyfriend/husband or with a friend complaining about the woes of daily life. Although, the mother-in-law complaints take the cake on this one. A crumpled handkerchief balled up in the fist, the end of a dupatta or the ‘pallu’ of a saree wipe away these tears. Some damsel s in distress thankfully have a friend along to lend a literal shoulder to cry on. I remember having one such breakdown after having an absolutely horrendous day at work. All eyes on me while I sobbed rather loudly, talking to a friend of mine about my ordeal.  I felt embarrassed and helpless at the same time, aware of all the curiosity around me and careful enough to avoid eye contact with anyone afterward.

Women who travel together frequently develop a fondness towards each other and in some cases a deep rooted companionship. A companionship which may develop on common grounds such as gossip, discussing clothes/jewellery/recipes/latest music and of course mother-in-laws. I was bent over ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusack on one such journey, warm tears flowing down my cheek as Liesel Meminger inched closer towards her ultimate fate. A concerned Aunty asked me if I was alright, I realized she was the same lady with whom I exchanged smiles everyday at Kalyan station (this just affirms the fact that I’m a crier). Then there are those who woes are painful menstrual cramps and unbearable headaches, all they need is a place to sit and some water and the advice of the wise old aunties travelling along.

What is it about trains or platforms that makes one feel free to breakdown? Is it the familiarity due to frequency or the comfort of breaking down in front of complete strangers you may never meet/see again? It could also be uninundated emotions that see neither time nor place; seeking solace in the silence and the sympathetic nods and stares of the people around. Maybe we’re so caught up that we don’t have time to be sad or we push pain away till we deem it appropriate to find an outlet. I still hesitate while offering a handkerchief, tissue or comfort to these anonymous damsels in distress. However, every time I see one a silent prayer goes their way. If I ever happen to see you teary eyed in the train or on a platform, a smile will definitely make its way to you. Plus, I always carry extra tissues, always.