Fuss

I can feel my stomach being devoured by the cramps. My face shows no signs of it- it smiles normally but the eyes can’t hide the agony inside. They are cold. I am sweating all over. I can feel the sweat traverse down my legs, through the wisps of hair. All I want now is a place to sit, to kill the nauseous feel. The brunch that I just had is threatening to throw up. My head reels and I shut my eyes tight to stop seeing things go round and round.

The train compartment is crowded. The vacation crowd is in – travelling with noisy bunches of kids and irritating new mobile phones (read, with extra super-sonic speakers for the whole train). Two little girls, in their early teens remember Allah as the train stops for want of proper signals. They want to know were each one of their neighbours want to get down, so they could maneuver their way to the window seat.

This is probably their first visit to the city. I stand, holding my patience together, tight between my molars. It is beyond Thane, about time that those sitting, relieve the ones who stand. A tiny finger pokes my waist. I open my eyes and look back, I can feel them burning.

“Aapko kahaan utarna hai?”

“Kyun?” I ask.

No answer.

I can see pairs of eyes dart towards me, scornful of my curt reply. Like I care.

I continue with my trance.

I stand close to the window, holding on to the luggage rack. I need it to keep myself standing upright. I tell myself I cannot let myself go on like this. I must eat like I used to. This is killing me. My stomach never groaned as badly.

The finger pokes again. I don’t look back. It pokes again. I look back in slow motion, I fear my head will fall down if I jerk it back.

“Thoda bajoo hato, hawa nahi aa raha hai”

Pat. “Darwaze ke yahaan jaake khade raho, acchha hawa aayega.”

I am amused. Bourgeois demands indeed. Frills of comfort.
One more poke and the bomb will explode. No idea what I’ll do but the kids will surely be scared.

Just then, the couple at the window seat in front of me, get up. They have to get down at the next station. My insides heave a sigh of relief. I feel older, weaker than the two decades that I am. I let my head rest sideways on the headboard. The sun pierces into my thigh through my jeans. A bottle of water stuck into the grille occasionally drips water onto the thigh, bringing a welcome peace. I am bored, bugged. I hate to be this ill. Enough.