Caught

It was 11pm and I was rushing into the train to get home. The train as usual was crowded but this time it was a little too crowded for taste and class. As I squeezed into the train, trying to find a comfortable and dignified place for me to stand, there was this old lady, standing rather steadily without the need of support of handle poles or back rests. Non of the young punks that was comfortably sitting down offered their places for this old lady to sit. But this blog post shall not be dedicated to these uncivilized young brutes, but rather to this inspiring old lady.

As was mentioned, she was standing rather steadily, her legs shoulders apart. While most of us commuting on a train would rather spend our time listening to our iPods or catching up on some sleep, this lady was furiously scribbling down her thoughts on her yellowing notepad. As she was writing, the people around her watched intently as though they were trying to make out what she was writing. I took a sly peek, adjusted my specs and tried to read what she was writing.

She wrote fast. She wrote furious. I couldn't make out what this aging writer was penning down, but I do hope on some idealistic level, that I was part of her writing. That she was inspired by what is happening around her and took the time to record it down. As I squinted and tried to read the notes, she slammed her notepad closed. Was I caught? Is a writing in progress something not to be observed by the casual observer? I was terrified for that second. Then, she gently slide her pencil into her rather worn out handbag, adjusted her glasses and left the train promptly.

I looked back as this aging lady gracefully walked towards the escalator. Her gaudy skirt flirted in the breeze. Her silver hair messily tied in a bun. I stared her as she got on the escalator, and as the train were moving. And then she looked up gently at me. She smiled.

I was indeed caught.

And I'm glad.