The train to Hudson

It is a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenberg’s, and I don't know what I am doing in New York. Waiting for the train, I suppose. I always wait for trains like that, in a way most; people wait for death, not knowing when it will come. In the distance, the dazzling unfamiliar skyline and the vivid display of delicacies on hotel memos makes my stomach rumble. I love New York, even though it isn't mine. But every now and then, at the resounding aura of the metropolitan twilight I feel a haunting sense of loneliness stirring inside , finding itself in the  faces of the shadows I pass through—poor young clerks who loiter in front of windows waiting until it is time for them to take off their suits of pride and slide into semi cubicle domes with shattering lights and discos, women in their tight, breath choking red dresses pretending to master the art of walking in heels that etch through their skin, a painter deriving his impression of a newly married couple, as they stand by the light poles, dreaming of a future together. Young students hurrying to catch trains, the Times Square glowing with the success stories of people who don’t feel very successful, paparazzi, media, some celebrity trying to hide from the roaring crowds, the smell of delicious food in every corner, some lost soul wanting to be discovered, tired clerks, curious housewives, tattoo clubs bristling with new comers, the sky rising to the churning fumes and mysterious blue. And here I stand , a young clergyman, caught between the rush of the day and the nightlife, pretending to remain sane. Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties ware five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the movies, I feel it all sinking in my heart. Forms leaning together in the taxis as they wait, and voices sing, and there is laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes outlining unintelligible gestures inside. Imagining that I, too, am hurrying toward this reality and sharing in their intimate excitement, I wish them well. But I prefer not to stay.

12:20 pm. My eyes are almost caught in a web of sleep, when a voice diverging through the powerful heavy metal in my earphones wakes me up. It is an old voice that knows itself.

‘They said the trains are running an hour late, son.”

“Sorry?” I say, without looking up from my phone.

“They said the trains all around the city are running an hour late. You had your earphones on. Maybe you couldn’t hear the announcement.”

“I heard it. But I am in no particular hurry to leave the station anymore. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Where are you going?”

She flops down next to me, putting her heavy bag between her legs. An old woman, in her late sixties. I try not to notice her face, but it is rather strange, covered in a thin piece of black veil.

“I don’t know”, I say, after considering this new acquaintance for a few moments.

“Is it really far?”

“What?”

“’I don’t know.’”

“Oh”, I laugh, letting the weight of the world fall down from my shoulders. On familiar occasions, I wouldn’t have done that. I am, by all means, a good natured, reserved man, with a fair disinterest in the ways of people. But something about this lady, maybe the way she looks down without ever taking off her veil to look at me, or the way she speaks, without a sense of care and need, reminds me of my mother. I go on, speaking further, while she listens, almost as intently as a child would.

“I am headed for Hudson, my hometown.”     

“Oh that’s brilliant”, she remarks, dabbing her nose with a embroidery napkin. I lean a little forward to see if I can make out anything about her face, but it’s all hidden, like a precious treasure. She sees me trying to make the effort and shits uncomfortably on her chair, I stop, remembering the law.

“Well it turns out that I am headed for Hudson too. My daughter just got married and had a baby.”

“Oh that’s lovely. You must be a very proud grandmother.”

“Well, I am lucky by far, son . I have had a chance to be a part of this beautiful world. In these rare moments that I am alone, far away from home, I pray , dance, analyze and see that life as both good and bad, beautiful and ugly. I understand that I have to dwell on the good and beautiful in order to keep my imagination, sensitivity, and gratitude intact. I know it will not be easy to maintain this perspective, even as an old woman, I know I keep flying out of car windows wanting to be somewhere else, wanting to be understood,. But in the end, no matter where the train takes me, I will be happy knowing that I strode along for a while.”

I watch her, quietly, slip away from the world, her words twisting and turning around the corners of her mouth. And for the first time in my life, I curse the train for being an hour late.

“Anyways”, she laughs, getting up. “I should go. You look tired. Take a breath.”

“No, I’ll..i’ll come with you.”

We walk across platforms, side by side, maintaining the infinite space between us. Over the great bridge, the sunlight girders through the platform casement windows making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The smell of warm, croissant fills the sultry Monday air as people amble across the white washed compartments, stuffing in and out of the expensive, grandiose stores, refusing to hold each other’s glance even for a few minutes. I think about past factories, boxes of metal with people inside, souls being ripped apart. I think about the tube posters and maps on my hostel walls, my box of trophies, that feeling of sucking up to nothing and being alive, running through the never ending fresh meadows, planting those impossible dreams that grew on the walls of my small Hudson house  , dreams that I wanted to follow to their fullest potential but never quite had the courage to do so. Countless pages of ink and comic strips tossed away into trash cans, countless hours of waiting to be found and acknowledged for what I really am. Putting my worth in stranger’s hand, playing the victim, hiding myself from my own eyes. Running, running, always running from someone or something . What am I even doing? Who am I living up to be?

I stop walking. She doesn’t.

“I think we should eat something. Allow me to pay.”

“Oh no son, that wont be needed. You eat, I pay.”

“No please”, I insist. “Let me. You remind me so much of my own mother as it is.”

We order pancakes at the bakery and she has a mouthful. I smile at how delighted she sounds.

“Are you ill?’ I ask for the first time. She looks up from her plate and takes off her veil. White blotches of skin stand on a shade of sun burnt yellow.

“Oh, I am sorry..”

“It’s alright. Its been quite some time. On most days, I wear the veil life has offered me. But on other days, I let it fall, revealing the blotch. In the end, entire life becomes an act of letting go. I know I am different. I know I have this disease. But it’s a part of me.  You better make the most of it though, life. There is no time to regret. While you are young, pack your bags, see as much of the world as you can and strive to dance in your own light. You are going to be alright, trust me my darling, you are going to be alright.”

I look up, at the dorm, pasted on a plate of frozen blue, thinking about home. A song plays along in the room upstairs. It’s a song from the old days.

‘I see a world in grain of sand

I see heaven in a wild flower

I hold an infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour ‘

 And for the first time in my life I feel nothing, but an infinite sense of  being and comfort.

-Hritoja