The Compartment

A family of intellectuals shared the same compartment as I did on my journey from Kottayam to Kollam. A grandmother, a grandfather, a father, a mother and a daughter. I was sitting alone, I couldn't comment on anybody to anyone. They first discussed about me, Nepal, Nepali (that was inevitable). And then there was discussion of books, authors, the grandmother even mentioning 'The Tempest', daughter confirming the name of author as 'Shakespeare'. They didn't forget to comment on Chinese toys either. Maybe they were a bit confused about my ethnicity, they had to comment on every possibility. The father seemed very knowledgeable, saying how the English book his daughter was reading was simple and had 'continuity'.

A compartment of a train holds a lot of memories, memories of every kind. Each station, each journey and each person unintentionally start weaving an unending blanket of these memories, the fabric getting thicker and thicker with every passing second. Some memories are good and some bad, some even have the power to teach a valuable lesson of life. But the best compartments are the ones where a kinship blossoms among the occupants and where when you realise the distance of the journey seem shorter.