He was sitting on the window seat, leaned mostly. The train had been false to its much applauded flaring speed and was travelling too slowly to attract everyone’s disgust. There was a continued chaos in the train, infants crying out loud, newspapers being folded and being read and ringtones that varied on a wide spectrum, from the typical Samsung one to US band songs to ditties that praised the god. Around him, the people were all hidden behind books, one enslaved amid Amitav Ghosh’s creations while one was devouring the end of a thick novel, the name of which he could not see. He was thinking of his future, trying to steal that one thumb rule of life that would ensure him a successful and victorious future although he was wise enough to know that life was never meant to be walked on one thumb rule. He had the Ernest Hemingway’s ‘old man and the sea’ in his bag and thought to pull it out to keep in harmony with the vicinity but those iterating fears of a pale future kept clinging his head and he kept striving for that one thumb rule.
That was when the writer instinct in him slackened out and he drifted into the portal of reveries. The fears which he was coercing himself to abandon had all fallen apart and before he knew, he was framing stories one after the other. Stories came up to him like someone turning the pages of a notebook in his mind and he was just reading them up. He would think of a couple, their love unconditional like a free flowing river, rejuvenating like hazel but their puerile judgments on each other are a barricade in their trust to marry or he would envisage the story of a vendor who had lost his daughter at a railway junction. He knows that many of the tales are naive and embryonic but he dreams and believes that one day he would stitch them all together to weave a story of the world for the world.