Glass windows.
It is cold, the blanket keeps me warm and there is no need to eat ground nuts because nobody sells those here.
It is quite and everybody is listening to music from their laptops and ipods. No music in the air still.
Food is good and it is the same chicken curry meals for the dinner again.
Very polite commuters and each respecting the other’s privacy like a sage.
Everybody smiles at one another and talks about which business trip or who awaits for them at their stations. Each show their pearly set of teeth with the most agreeable smile.
Nobody gossips or exchanges food, isn’t it uncivilised?
Noone laughs from the bottom of his lungs as it might disturb the peace.
Even the baby refuses to cry.
The compartment looks like a boring camping site with multiple tents zipped and locked from inside.
The only view and real is the window to my right. Glass window, I waved at those children about to piss on the railway tracks, those gypsy women strutting in their rainbow skirts, and those young boys with their caps turned around blew me air kisses and I returned them. They don’t live within any glass windows.
Where are the eunuchs? I miss them. The compartment lacks a character.
Where are the bhujia walas, this room is too sweet.
Where am I? It is little too comfortable right now.
I didn’t comb my hair today because no wind passed through the glass windows.
Its is past midnight and the silence is maintained diligently.
Somebody should act alive. I am knocking at the glass window.
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