One Day at Dadar Station...

I saw a monk on the station, a few days ago.

That’s right, a Buddhist (Tibetan, I think) monk, on a railway station.

Standing amidst a rushing, blurred crowd.

I guess, he too wanted to go somewhere – but it just didn’t seem like the same thing. And it wasn’t because of his clothes or his shaven head.

Maybe it was his expression, which (to me) seemed like that of peacefulness and shock.

Was he shocked at us, the normal crowd – running, pushing, bustling to get somewhere…

(To get somewhere, to get somewhere?)

Or was he shocked because of something that had happened in his life… that compelled him to travel to our crazy city?

Either way, he hadn’t lost the sweet, serene peace inside him.

You know, I have this little game that I play when I’m on the station. On the stairs I try and ‘overtake’ the others. The more people I beat, the better I feel about myself.

But today, when I saw him, after beating ‘lady in rush no. 3’, I stopped. I just stopped.

A few pushes a lot of swearwords later, I realized you can’t just stop on the station. And so, I started walking, slowly, so I was right behind him.

I don’t know why, but I felt like stopping and talking to him. I wanted to know where he was born, why he was here, where he was going, where he came from, why he joined a monastery, what was in his yellow cotton jhola, etc. etc. etc.

But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t stop.

I didn’t.

Instead, I took the stairs to my platform.