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I am at the railway station!


I am at the railway station. Seated in the waiting hall, my mind wanders around the place- as mist would over flowers and leaves in the morning- it wanders; finding one piece after another of this giant puzzle. Just as earth rotates to find sun illumining it, my mind finds a dog here resting unconsciously. And the announcement in the mike behind me about a train arriving or departing. There is a television before me suspended to the roof. A man coughing profusely beside me, it was so unprecedented that he caught the sleepy dog by surprise. There are hoardings by the walls around me, no room left uncovered. The fans are surprisingly good, the dog is fat too- quite a sight, for it is virtually unseen that a stray dog is fat and lazes all day.

The display board before me stutters every now and then, refreshing all the items on it. The rapid scuttling of letters makes it so appealing. Oh! My. There is another dog, just as heavily built as its partner. This one has thick black spots running lengthwise all over its body, strongly resembles the wild fox. My platform number is up on the board now.

In the tele before me, they are running little vignettes of burglary by deceptively men and women (sort of commonplace) - an alert and appeal for the passengers to look after themselves. Its only 4 PM now. Another hour to go!

The wandering mind has captured a sound here (of a person, mike, train) and the image of an object there (of a dog, board, people), and has now returned to sit on its floor, where I will carefully examine the bounty. So many collections, each one unique, and as I examine, my mind is out there collecting. All the same, I have consciously tried to collect as of now. How difficult it is, and how impossible, to sit all by yourself

Yet, is it necessary, I ask? I certainly enjoy the time I spend all by myself, sort of rejuvenation for me. Without these moments, I would become pallid and pale. To appreciate it, one has to spend it. I have tried to explore solitude deeply and consciously. One thing is for sure, one returns from solitude gratified of himself, one measures up oneself in solitude. I am fascinated by its potential and powerful authority. It so happens that sometimes, solitude bears upon you, a mood of melancholy. That you should be alone despite all the collections (images, sounds, feelings, friends, family….). But it is not too arcane, one only has to experience it only once to see why solitude is important for every person.

I see around me, someone is playing a hindi song on his mobile phone speaker, someone is watching tele, someone dozing off, someone staring straight into the abyss, someone sipping from a bottle of coke, someone just looking around. I see all these people, and it comforts me that I have found something of a valuable possession, which is to write. To write is what I do when I am down with fever, with anger, with angst and happy. To write is something so personal to me that I find a deep chasm of emptiness in others. I have filled all such gaping holes in my person with sounds-of my mind.

Now I am not at the mercy of advertisers, or of the people around me. I can turn myself off of the environment around me and plug into my mind whenever I chose to. I expand like the mist and bear upon the people and environment around me; I perceive what is around me just as the mist wets all the things in it, then I draw back into myself. Just as the bees suck nectar and fly home, my senses collect from the environment, everything that is out there, and bring it back home. Here, in this honey comb of my mind, I save them all, distil and purify them. The final result is sweet honey- a relief.

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