On Commute, Comfort and the Intermittent
I find comfort in the intermittent. These days, my commute back home from my workplace comprises of a long journey, with (bone-chilling) wintry air breezing past me as my cab drowns in a sea of rushed commuters, all drifting speedily towards their destination.
It provides me with a glimpse into other bubbles- like that of one lone lady, dressed up in a crimson red shawl, standing by the roadside and staring absently into the cars which zoom past her; of disinterested cops surrounded by young men with worried creases along their foreheads, attempting to negotiate their way through yet another traffic violation; of the enthusiastic sedan driver who prefers his drive with a side of blaring, upbeat music and of auto-wallahs huddled together in a corner, whose eyes curiously sift through scores of potential customers exiting the metro station.
But most particularly, that of close friends- the ones who find themselves similarly placed, due to the erratic work hours which come part and parcel with the profession. The ones who recall the high and lows of their day in a rushed stream of words, akin to servers at a restaurant proficiently rattling off the menu rhythmically and effortlessly; the ones who gush about their internal conflictions- ranging from professional discomfort to the rush of meeting someone new yet oddly familiar; and the ones who vent about their day, only to get through yet another.
This transitory space- when the roads become more vacant with each drop in Mercury and the smell of smoke, emanating from makeshift furnaces by the roadside, mingles with the fog- becomes a solace. It provides one with a space to just be present in. A space without the diktats of internal mental planners luring one into a perpetual state of doing. And somewhere along the ride, between prosaic musings and the desire to slip underneath layers of fluffy blankets, I find comfort in the intermittent.
