It is almost 06:38 one morning, and i'm waiting up, like i do most mornings, for the 0638 to coast in. This is a description of some regular sights that i catch in the process.
The 40 something Cowboy Trapeze Artist (Codename - Uncle) cannot rest until he has hurled himself into the oncoming train even before it has come to a halt. That despite the train being empty! I gather this has to be his most defining personality trait, something he has painstakingly perfected for decades now. Hopefully, he understands the difference between hurling into and hurling onto!
And, there are the Cousins, his accomplices who herd behind him in the act, convinced in the belief that this is their last train to salvation!
Fugitive appears hurriedly from the shadows, with steely pale eyes, always shivering with fear. He scampers in like a shrew that has been pursued by an owl.
Frequent Flier arrives through the bridge and seats himself at the same place as he has done before. Now, bridge is our reference for the train that has parked itself adjacent to ours, scheduled to depart ahead. In case of the bridge not available for transit, he trudges down the track, climbs up the dirty, rusted scaffolding and hoists himself into the carriage. Not an unimpressive antic for a seemingly 50 something tumbler! But stupid, all the same.
Half Moon, the bald 30 something guy is in perpetual hurry, occasionally accompanied by Distressed Damsel who scampers along like a mouse deer.
The Meerkats appear two pit stops later. Teens, enthusiastic and three in number, they seem primarily preoccupied with news from the soccer world, and intermittently raise their heads in unison as if posted on the prairies as lookouts. One of them can be mistaken for a bush baby!
The Twin Cloud, two 'accidental' look-alike colleagues make an occasional entry from one or two pit stops later. They are forever preoccupied, intensely wondering about their work woes, which are, not surprisingly, people specific, and spend the remainder of the journey strategizing.
Motormouth is the most undistinguished of the lot, but is heard the most. He has no qualms yelling his lungs out to comrades who seem utterly disinterested and the rest of us who are thoroughly disgusted. The description is understated, surely.
So much for seemingly serene mornings!
The 40 something Cowboy Trapeze Artist (Codename - Uncle) cannot rest until he has hurled himself into the oncoming train even before it has come to a halt. That despite the train being empty! I gather this has to be his most defining personality trait, something he has painstakingly perfected for decades now. Hopefully, he understands the difference between hurling into and hurling onto!
And, there are the Cousins, his accomplices who herd behind him in the act, convinced in the belief that this is their last train to salvation!
Fugitive appears hurriedly from the shadows, with steely pale eyes, always shivering with fear. He scampers in like a shrew that has been pursued by an owl.
Frequent Flier arrives through the bridge and seats himself at the same place as he has done before. Now, bridge is our reference for the train that has parked itself adjacent to ours, scheduled to depart ahead. In case of the bridge not available for transit, he trudges down the track, climbs up the dirty, rusted scaffolding and hoists himself into the carriage. Not an unimpressive antic for a seemingly 50 something tumbler! But stupid, all the same.
Half Moon, the bald 30 something guy is in perpetual hurry, occasionally accompanied by Distressed Damsel who scampers along like a mouse deer.
The Meerkats appear two pit stops later. Teens, enthusiastic and three in number, they seem primarily preoccupied with news from the soccer world, and intermittently raise their heads in unison as if posted on the prairies as lookouts. One of them can be mistaken for a bush baby!
The Twin Cloud, two 'accidental' look-alike colleagues make an occasional entry from one or two pit stops later. They are forever preoccupied, intensely wondering about their work woes, which are, not surprisingly, people specific, and spend the remainder of the journey strategizing.
Motormouth is the most undistinguished of the lot, but is heard the most. He has no qualms yelling his lungs out to comrades who seem utterly disinterested and the rest of us who are thoroughly disgusted. The description is understated, surely.
So much for seemingly serene mornings!
