Our Twang

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
Kahlil Gibran

He used to take the same local as mine, sometimes. A bundle of energy..always rushed.

He must be 16- 17. What did I name him? I named him Twang.. no, he wasn’t Chinese. He reminded me of the arrows shot by warriors, precise, exact, designed to reach the bull’s eye.

He would spot the long, slithering eleven coaches of morning 9:05 local coming from the mountains from his balcony that faced the lush greenery and then he would sprint all the way from his home, down the stairs across the street towards the station, to catch it. Did he take the elevator? No idea. I just remember the sprinting and the thuds of his keds. There was a method to the madness, he jumped over, under, slid by the obstructions and managed to get the train most of the times. It was fun to see the winding train rushing towards the station and him tearing through the crowd with bashful attitude of youth that is untouched by fear, mortality., remains of experiences; sappers all , that hold us back.

Sometimes he passed me by, sprinting and somehow I always wanted him to be able to get into the train he chased. Whenever he ran and caught the train tearing through the crowd that sometimes I was part of; like a majestic arrow Twang energized everyone around and we the walkers, the peddlers of the day, who didn’t really want to run for our trains because we had been doing so for far too many years, ; we were happy to see him run and catch his trains while being content at shuffling at our pace and waited for the next one to arrive.

At least there was one among us who had the jest for a good chase and he was the symbol of strength and zones of vivaciousness we never would stretch to, unless forced. Twang truly stood up as a symbol of all human possibilities; Majestic and magnificent.