I started writing when I was chaos inside—when my thoughts were a tangled mesh, and I was trapped within them. Like a web, but this time, I was the one who created it, and I was the one being attacked by it. My own thoughts were killing me from the inside, wanting to escape, like the birds chirping outside. I can hear them, even though I am wearing headphones. The sounds are muffled, but they are still there.
I hear voices at the train station, waiting for my train to come, sitting on a bench between two women. One is youngly old, and the other is too old—so old that she makes the world feel more endless. They are talking about life.
“The weather of Chandigarh is better than Delhi, right?” Her relationship with that person doesn’t seem nice. “I am alone. My daughter and son don’t want to live with me anymore because I became too old to live?”
For a little while, it was like knowing someone from the inside. Her thoughts became mine. I was nothing to her—she might not even remember my face. But I will remember her voice. A voice carrying the weight of life. She is more experienced than I will ever be. If I live that long, I will be.
It reminds me that I am not the only one with thoughts. Not the only one carrying things. I’ve always known that, but in my own problems, I forget about others. Maybe this is the only quality in me that feels worth something—thinking about other people’s emotions, their crises, their lives. When I do, I feel more alive.
The sound of the train is getting closer. I see a young, curly-haired girl standing in front of me, waiting for the same train. She will sit in the same coach as me. She is beautiful, elegant in a black leather jacket. The confidence in her eyes makes it seem like she is used to the world, like she has been on endless solo trips. And here I am, holding a bag as big as me—a small, clumsy girl with no confidence, a shaky voice asking for help. How can I ever be like her? Confident. Beautiful. Maybe never.
But it's fine. It's fine because I can feel her troubles too. Maybe she is too confident because the world forced her to be. Maybe not in the right way. Maybe she is scared, too.
Confidence isn’t the only thing about her. Her curls don’t define her. She must be tired of explaining herself to the world.
Her eyes hold something deep inside—a secret she keeps locked in a box every morning. She is waiting for this train to escape again. Maybe her solo trips are where she goes to find herself.
Her soul, which is lost somewhere. Her smile, which makes her.
She is lost. She needs to find herself again. Maybe she wants someone to look for her, so she can stop searching on her own.
The train arrives. I hear its sound. People step forward. I do the same.
Standing from my bench, waiting at the end of the crowd, holding my big, empty suitcase. Going once again from my hometown to the place where I work.
This time, I am lucky. I have a window seat. I can watch the world from the inside.
A prison of my own mind, with a window of dreams.
The sun’s rays fall on her like a gentle warmth, like hope returning to her face. It feels like the trapped version of me is breathing again—hoping that she will feel the warmth of the world, just like the sun’s rays.
I can see the greener side of the world. It's not the same in Delhi. A place of pollution, of too many people. But sometimes, those people make it better. When she feels like she can't breathe, they help her—like small rays of hope.
But as the train moves forward, those same rays start to irritate me. They are not the same at every moment. And I don’t like things that change every second.
These rays, slipping through the gaps between the tall trees, feel like they are coming just for me. Maybe I don’t like them anymore.
They were fine at first. But now, their warmth has turned hot. Their smoothness has become an obstacle to my journey, and I can’t enjoy the view.
So, the only option left is to pull the curtains shut.
Trapping myself inside the train again.
