She watched the argument from her bunk. The young man had stood up and started pointing, gesticulating wildly in frustration. Anger bulleted out of him in all directions whilst his voice rose and the whole compartment gathered in to watch the show. She knew enough Hindi to recognise its sounds, sweeps and inflections but not enough to understand the full implications of what this dark skinned loose-fitting checked shirt man was trying to say. His passion was evoked, his body in fluid motion, his voice was rising and his supposed argument, convincing...
He had already lost.
His opponent was a much older and bearded man. He sat
quietly, occasionally replying to the performance of youth in front of him. He
was the complete opposite in every way. Sitting in formal dress, dignified to
the core, there was power in his eyes and his words were clear yet controlled.
In his mind, he had already won. By maintaining a sense of decorum, coupled
with his age and bearing, he didn’t need the support from the crowd.
The group of travellers they were with, split the man of passion
from the one of reason, and the visiting spectators soon settled to their
evening dinner. The train passed by unnamed villages with their small temples
and groups of people idling away the late hours as darkness returned. The
rhythmic pulse of the train, swaying gently from side to side eased the
travellers in to a sense of security, knowing that no matter what happened,
they would reach their destination. All else was just a side-show, a mere distraction
on the way.
You can read more short stories here: Short stories
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