The worth of a smile

He was early today. It was just one of those days when the universe decides to play nice. As he stood waiting for his train, he pondered over the sheer number of people just like him. The peak hour rush was a miasma of sounds, smells and sights. A giant juggernaut set into motion taking all—the agitated and impatient, the languid and the laggard —from one existence to another.

And the smell! Wasn’t it strange that all stations (even bus stations for that matter) seemed to have a similar rancid and heavy odour? Was that the collective smell of humanity? You would think that the tedium of travel over the years would have made you immune, but no, at each stop, every day, you can feel it hit your nose. And each day you think it is worse than before.

Inside the train, it doesn’t really matter. When plastered to another human being, you can only accept what the Fates have drawn for you – rotten or pleasant.

Bracing himself for another push and shove episode, he looked on at the other men (and a few brave (?) women) mirroring him. “We look like warriors bracing themselves for the clarion call,” he thought.

As the train drew in, there wasn’t that usual clash of exiting and entering people. Luck seemed to like him a lot today. Not only was the compartment less crowded, he got to stand by the door, breathing in fresh air. Once he settled in, he looked around and spotted her.  “A butterfly in a jar. A butterfly in a male jar. A butterfly in a jar of moths. Much better!” he thought and smiled. Their eyes met over the crowd and she gave him that polite half-smile accorded to strangers you’ve being forced to acknowledge. His heart sank a bit, decorum asking him to look away. He peeked, whenever he could, taking in her slender fingers grasping the handrail so firmly that the bones of her hand and wrist stood out. And most importantly, no ring. Her hair was tied up more for functionality than fashion, and every time the sun hit it, they took on a brownish hue, just like the eyes. The lines on her palm formed a distinct ‘M’ and the wrist was bereft of any jewellery other than a black thread. He wished he could see the rest of her; he only caught glimpses of her red buttoned to the top shirt.

At the next stop, she moved closer to him, close enough for him to smell orange blossoms. He thanked God and then thanked him some more when a bigger crowd surged in, jostling them into each other, her front to his side, her one hand jammed between the side panel and his back. He wished the hand would stay there but alas! She swiftly pulled her hand back and moved apart.

They stood like this for the next two stops, both slightly more conscious, and it would be safe to say, each wondering who was more embarrassed. Making her way to the door, she looked back and smiled, this time with warmth.

And like that she was gone.

Her smile lingered with him as he reached his station. It stayed put as he sat in the cab wondering the 'what ifs' of an interrupted romance. And it died just as quickly, for when he reached for his wallet, he realized he had been picked clean.