That boy...

2nd December,Tuesday evening.
I was walking from work towards Churchgate station with the working-class bustle.In the silent anger that I could decipher from their 'aaj market ka haal kya tha' talks,it seems this furore is gonna hit the dust too soon. I get on a train homebound and haplessly,let things unfold in my mind.All questions like who,what,where,why,how---we could get back and not sit and 'watch the magic'. 10 minutes later,a group of noisy,just-left-from-work Gujju fucks(yeah there,I said it) barged in and right there,began to yap about the only current hot 'gossip'. One of them claimed to be a survivor of the blasts .It's amazing how I could understand his bumbling,pan-chewed,crude Gujju tone laced with the choiciest expletives that gained a lot of surprised and disgusted looks from the other travellers.
So after an hour of verbal bombings on the CM and deputy CM,the lacklustre ammunition with the Mumbai cops,this motherfucker,that motherfucker.......(it's fuckin' funny how come he doesn't talk about Narendra Modi who plays the Hero of The Day by offerring a huge sum of money to the family of Hemant Karkare,a guy was few days ago termed'anti-national') , I see this little kid taking his place in the big,bad,pissed crowd, standing near the window.He wasn't deaf for sure,for, every time a 'bhenchot' or 'madarchot' was dropped by the 'survivor dude',he turned around,gave a disgusted expression and then looked away.

I then took notice of the little kid. He stared wide away into the sky.There was a moon and two bright,sparkling stars which shaped an L form.He wasn't deaf alright,but I guess ,for that train ride,he wished he was deaf or maybe even blind.He wished he would be there on the moon and not here on this planet. The stuff entering his ears wasn't a nursery rhyme nor a granma story.It was true-blue fuckin' reality. He wished he was in one of those granma stories itself,without a bad ending.Not a tear from his eye,but a nascent storm was breathing life inside .Or maybe it was fear of losing a parent,a friend,a teacher or maybe even a limb.
I don't even remember the 1993 blasts till somebody brought it up in Std. 6th . That boy would barely have been 6 years old. I connected to that little fella',thinking about the stuff he'd gone thru and not me,when I was 6 .My months of cribbing of leading a shitty life at 19 sure ceased to exist for that moment.
I had to lose this train and catch another mebbe,but that kid sure seemed happy when he jumped on the vast amount of space I'd left while getting off the train........