Absolute Strangers to Bluespring

The compartment was partially filled as regularly with apprentices and their portfolios, non-bragging elites with cigarettes and daily broadsheet, twosomes at their eighties and seventies sipping something hale and hearty as prescribed, hermits reading romantics and mysteries and listening to their favourite categories at intervals. Apparently, only the rustling wheels to Bluespring were deafeningly felt.
The cubicle was shared for an hour and a conversation still remained oblivious between us. Her face was straight down and her eyes intensely fixed at the flaunting words. Seemingly, she didn’t miss a single punctuation. I still wonder whose art consumed her that day and why she had to wrap the covers with prints. She didn’t care about the trickles rejuvenating the landscape or she didn’t feel them at all. I did bother to know her story and on one occasion I thought for an interruption. But to gain requires a process of losing a part of my testosterones so I decided to continue with the observation which was kind of uncomfortable. I was a gentleman as always. I watched her close the pages and press the cover then slightly put it away to the other angle of her seat . She seemed exhausted with the words so I cleared my gullet and interjected, “May I..” and before I could complete she jumped in, “You don’t have to”. Rejected right away. I couldn't perceive what she faithfully meant by her incandescence but I pretty well caught her accent. Trying to cool down the atmosphere I whispered, “Ah Indian” then continued at a volume topper “you’re firm” and after a pause I continued, “and smart too" and quickly smiled. Boom! I received a disgusting smirk in return. I felt terrible. There was a gap precisely for ten seconds. “So what brings you to Bluespring?” I went on further. For humanity’s sake I wanted to win this time. I had been a looser in all the discussions I conducted. I tell you she was one big persistent silent creature I had deliberately ever stumbled upon but that didn’t stop me from continuing the subtle tête-à-tête. In fact my intuition wasn’t at the dead edge. I knew I wouldn't fail. With an unwilling tone she uttered, “Stuff”. Pause. “Biological stuff you know”. I suggest that she would make the perfect human robot. Throughout the silence and our little exchanges, she set her eyes at the damp glasses and didn’t care to question how long it had been drizzling or when it had begun which is universally expected in such a circumstance. She was more of actions than speech. She propped her heavy curled tresses against the frames, pushed herself a little back , adjusted her marsala cardigan and folded her arms. She was all relaxed then inquired, “What’s yours?”.  Wow! She wanted to know my story?  I felt a throb for two seconds. A throb of excitement and nervousness. Hiding away the twitchiness I grinned and took a pill from my 1988 Marc Jacobs which was passed down from my dad and reaching to the bottle I asked, “Well, what do you reckon madam?” She rolled her eyes wildly and answered (this time sounding like a wild annoyed cat), “Gentleman, you’re weak but you want adventure and (sighs) desperate for a conversation but I think I have more important things to reckon ”. She talked in such a haste and stopped abruptly that she sounded like a sewing machine. But wait ! she was equally observant. She said I was ‘weak’. Yes I was down with fever so I had to carry a strip of acetaminophen. I knew women hailing from her republic were subservient to any welcoming interaction but this one was different in every way, from her groovy native accent to her appalling independent assertiveness and bewitching features. She possessed a narcissistic flamboyance complementing right to her dogged countenance. She spoke when demanded with no beautification and for which I commented “I know Indians are pretty much fond of adjectives but you’re not”. I’m sure she was as restless as me deep in her conscience to know something about my escapade but because we were only some absolute strangers to Bluespring she probably gave up the idea. Her conduct addressed how precision and trust were her two delicate philosophies ever since her adolescence. Every time I was swayed by her temperament I commented something and smirked at every final syllable. I don’t why I did that. I must have looked witless but I knew I wasn’t getting vexatious in any way. We kept exchanging little and the silence kept mounting between a distance of two feet.
It was halfway to Bluespring and we both were to take our pathways in not more than twenty seven minutes but journey to Bluespring seemed incomplete to me without having done a little more of questions and answers. However, she didn't find the need to participate at all. The disillusionment that ran in my head all the more proves why we weren't telepathic. But we did share something. A spiritual bearing. I felt it. But it was never spelled out by either of us. Fundamentally, homo sapiens are hit hard by the harsh plays of reality and dreams get distorted when society gets devised by superstitions, anarchy, and suspicions and in due time the ambitious retire in a position where they seal their goals only to relish in memory. So probably we both had an analogous reason which was why we began and ended as strangers.

The coach stopped. It was time. I pulled out my shabby old leather luggage from underneath. I wanted to help her but to avoid a double rejection I only watched her grab her neat vintage trolley. I believe she too got that passed from her grandma (1950s maybe?). As we rose to our feet, I desperately wanted to present some well wishes but I was tongue-tied and for the first time in our history to Bluespring we exchanged glares, period.