(Mornings at home, in Sakleshpur)

For the last couple of days, I was in Bangalore, the tech-capital of India. From the railway station, I took the metro to my friend’s house. The stations were spotless and the staff helpful. I was surprised to find a seat in the ladies-compartment, at that evening rush hour. I was a village woman in a big city, curious to see how this place works.

At every stop, a few women came in and sat down quietly, making no eye contact with anyone, not saying anything or smiling. Most eyes and ears, firmly plugged into a device. It seemed like I was the only one enjoying the tree-tops in full bloom as we glided through this urban sprawl. I wonder, if there were no windows in the carriage, would anyone have noticed? Inside that dense silence, everyone was busy. It reminded me of my daily commute in London.

I don’t remember trains in India ever being so quiet. Is this the ‘progress’ we are so proud of?

In the middle of the carriage, two friends, who I guess were young mothers, stood, speaking to each other in Kannada. If I strained my ears, the fragile new neural tracks in my brain caught a few words and phrases here and there. But mostly, I enjoyed their soft, yet animated exchanges, colorful saris, traditional earrings and jasmine strings pinned into their long black hair. Their silver toe-rings beautified their very practical footwear. I was happy to witness the faint echoes of an ancient civilization.

I reached my destination and started walking toward the exit with my small trolley bag. At the top of the staircase, the young man walking ahead of me came to a sudden halt. His head was encased in a set of huge black headphones. I set my bag down, waiting for him to move forward. Like an automaton, his big head rotated through 180 degrees very slowly, waking up to the fact that he was surrounded by hundreds of people carrying hundreds of colorful pieces of luggage. After what seemed like an age, he picked up his suitcase and started walking again, as if in a daze.

I write this, as I sit by a window on the train back home, reminiscing my little urban escapade, riding through the green and serene countryside, happy to be reunited with my friends, the trees.

Wonder if they ever count how many trees are killed in a war.

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others, only a green thing which stands in the way… As a man is, so he sees.”

– William Blake