Every Friday, as the workweek exhales its final breath, I embark on the same pilgrimage homeward. The ritual unfolds with clockwork precision—board the crowded train, scan the sea of faces for an empty seat, and then surrender to the gentle rocking motion until sleep claims me.
On this particular Friday, fortune smiled upon me earlier than usual. Just one stop into the journey, I secured a coveted seat—a small victory in the battlefield of weekend commuters. With practiced efficiency, I transformed my weathered bag into a makeshift pillow and collapsed into the seat, ready to be carried away on the dual tracks of steel and dreams.
But sleep, that elusive companion, wouldn't come. Something kept tugging at the edges of my consciousness—quite literally. A persistent tapping against my leg forced my heavy eyelids open, and there he stood—a miniature human whose presence filled the train compartment far beyond his physical dimensions.
This little human—no more than three and a half feet tall—existed in a parallel universe to our adult world of deadlines and destinations. He was a spinning top of pure energy, his small body unable to contain the joy that bubbled from within. He sang snippets of songs unknown to me, performed spontaneous dance moves in the narrow aisle, and occasionally cast glances in my direction as if inviting me into his carnival of wonder.
"Where are you headed?" I asked, curiosity finally bridging our worlds.
He named his destination with a smile that revealed a missing tooth—a small milestone in his journey through childhood, worn as proudly as any battle scar.
When he looked at me again, his eyes sparkled with expectation.
"What's your name?" .
"Wajith," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of importance only a child can assign to their own name. The way he pronounced it—with a slight lift of his chin and squaring of his tiny shoulders—suggested this wasn't merely what he was called; it was who he was.
The little human stood before me, practically vibrating with anticipation. He was fishing for more questions, each one a potential affirmation of his significance in this vast, adult-dominated world.
"Which class are you studying in?" I asked.
"Third," came the swift reply, delivered with the solemnity of announcing a prestigious appointment.
"Wow, you're such a big boy!" The words left my lips before I could consider their banality, but to Wajith, they were transformative. His face bloomed like a flower greeting the morning sun—cheeks rounded, eyes crinkled, mouth stretched into an impossibly wide grin. In that moment, I witnessed pure, undistilled happiness wash over him.
As adults, we've forgotten the power of such simple acknowledgments. The world has taught us to crave complex validations—promotions, accolades, material symbols of success. Yet here was this little human, radiating joy because a stranger had recognized his growth journey from second to third grade.
While the train carved through the landscape, Wajith continued his one-man show. His unbridled enthusiasm never waned, his songs never faltered. He existed in that rare state of complete presence—no thoughts of yesterday, no worries about tomorrow, just the melodious now.
I abandoned all pretense of sleep, captivated instead by this impromptu performance. When was the last time I had felt such uninhibited joy? When had I last danced without caring who watched, or sang without worrying about hitting the right notes?
As the train slowed for his stop, Wajith gathered his small backpack. His performance came to an abrupt end as his destination approached. He flashed me one final, radiant smile—his farewell gift to a stranger-turned-audience member. The little human bounded toward the doors along his parents with the same energy that had animated his entire journey.
Comments
Post a Comment