Lost in Translation
I was standing in the main courtyard of Paddington
station amidst electronic display boards, men and women wrapped in
scarves and aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It may feel surreal, but in
reality I was late and the scenario didn't seem pretty. The antique
clock above reminded of my boss Alex, whose face looked like a beetroot
when he was angry. For a moment I went blank, not knowing where to go
next. I had my tickets, I already knew where to board my train, still,
my feet were glued before my favourite coffee kiosk. Like every
Tuesday, I saw her again today. She was whom everyone referred to as
the woman on platform number ten. She wore a mustard yellow parka with
skirt and stood there on the same platform every Tuesday, whole day.
She was the only passenger who never boarded a train from Paddington. I
guess today she’s late too, she passed by me hurriedly towards her
platform.
I have been witnessing her act
for past few months. She never seemed to miss any Tuesday for her
day-out at the Paddington. I had like all others, wondered why she
would do it week after week. She was not a homeless asking for help, or a
beggar. She looked quite well-off in her clothes and accessories. Yet,
she looked as hapless as anyone could be. At times she looked as if
she has lost everything. Her attire kept changing with climates and
seasons, but the mustard parka was always there. The pale mustard
seemed to reflect its paleness on her face too. Some days I noticed
her, other days I was in hurry or pre-occupied with books or my tiny
music player. I too inquired about her, like everyone else. No one had
the courage to ask directly about her plight, and yet everyone seemed
to know. My co-passengers had always whispered among themselves about
her, on Tuesdays. From the scrapes of their conversations, I gathered
that a man had left her, boarding a train from platform number ten in
Paddington, and never came back. She waited, every Tuesday for him to
return. She is not insane, she works somewhere nearby, leads a normal
life and yet there is this bit of insanity in her to wait for her lover
every Tuesday.
I lead a normal life too – I have
a grumpy boss, demanding girlfriend, irritating friends and distant
parents. Yet, every time I see her, I seem to gradually realize her
insanity and loneliness. Her pale mustard parka and black scarf in
contrast have become a symbol of something to me, something
unexplainable, not insanity. People around me whisper how she’s wasting
time waiting for an imbecile. I feel a pang when I see her though, I
feel as if she’s giving back her debt of memories to life in the form
of a few days. I feel I too will become insane some day, and wait for
eternity, perhaps in Paddington itself.
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