As soon as I got into the metro, I saw beautiful faces with ugly expressions. The afternoon part of the metro likes to keep itself mundane yet relaxed. Sleeping faces were thrashing the window panes, yawning was being welcomed by almost everyone who was trying to keep his/her eyes off falling together. Everything around seemed dry and everyone seemed dead.

The train ritually stopped at one of the stations. And who came in , were not people ,rather it was a storm. It just took 7 " 4-feet " heighted small creatures to bring life back in that metro. Their laughter seemed to replace every square of monotonicity. “ aj pehli batting lene “ , “ ha wo kal maine 64 mara tha vishal ki to halat kharab ho gayi thi “ “ lekin yaar wo bowling acha krta hai, aise hath ko na twist , nahi waise nahi , dekh . . . “  baba re , they were not talking. They screaming at the top of their voices, literally. Their shirts were drenched in sweat. Heavy school bag and a big bottle adorning their burden. I could feel their enthusiasm as it was just yesterday that I had left my school, I saw myself with them, a little me with a genuine smile. No extra kajal, liner or gloss. And in that short skirt, shirt and tie ,I could see “ the prettiest  ME “.

Nobody was anymore in a sleepy mode. Their vibes had brought everyone on the deck back to life. All through my way, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I was reliving the past. Those blue id cards reminded me of days when the only day that seemed blue happened to be Sunday.

They hardly paid any heed to anyone around. They were laughing, fighting, eating, enjoying. They were not conscious of what people might think or how they looked in those sweaty and sacky dresses or how unkempt their hairs were. They were just so much into themselves. Aaaahh, good old days!

It was just the cricket match’s scores and strategies that worried them. Neither the heavy weighted bag could trouble them, nor the hot weather and here was I , carrying a feather weighted bag and each time I looked at it , it admonished to take the hell outta me.  .  .  how ironical , as the bag’s burden starts decreasing, the weight of the dreams and expectations levied on the back increases and that makes the bag heavier than ever before. . .

As I saw them getting down, I could see my childhood leaving me, AGAIN and I could do nothing, yet  AGAIN. . The doors closed and the window panes showed me the last imaginary glimpse of my childhood. The train jerked and moved forward. I could see the “small me”  getting lost in the crowd or may be , It was the real me , who seemed lost , lost in a world, which is now far from reality.