Every child shares a universal love for trains, a fascination that remains constant regardless of any other differences. It’s as if a mysterious fairy plants this seed of wonder into the minds of the young, making the allure of trains something magnificent and magical.
In these small train rides, I have encountered several adventures. Once, I found myself captivated by a pretty lady sitting next to me, her smile, those dimples, were a sea of her beauty while I hangered myself along those seldom glances of her mystic eyes. While another time, I ran into a cousin I hadn’t seen in years, only to discover he was traveling with his eloped wife, their nervous glances making the encounter feel like a scene from a drama. It was good for them it was me and not my chatty aunt which was undoubtedly responsible for most of our gossips.
But today, I have a different story to tell—one that is more mysterious and introspective. This adventure is not about fleeting moments with strangers or surprising reunions. It’s something deeper, something that lingers in the mind long after the journey is over. I call it: A Letter to Myself.
A letter to myself
Exams, they say, touch the shallow surface of the ocean of wisdom,
Often incapable of measuring true wisdom,
Really wise words that I once didn't understand,
Years back, I was a naive boy,
Obsessed with little numbers marked in red all over,
How funny it seems to me now.
Once, I was running late for an exam, with a train still to catch,
Unaware that this journey would change my life forever.
Traveling by an old, rusty, dusty seater coach was no hobby of mine,
But a necessity.
The coach was pretty much full, except for a seat here and there.
As soon as I found one, I started studying.
After all, it was French—a very strange language,
Where romance and revolution happen together.
I was seated in front of a very strange man,
He was stealing glances at me here and there,
Sending a chill down my spine.
I tightened my grip on my bag as I tried to catch a glimpse of his face behind the generic English newspaper.
He had brown eyes and black hair, not much different from mine, I thought silently, tightening my hold even more.
But then, I realized it was more important to focus on cramming the French language than worrying about this stranger.
The stranger rose, and I tightened my grip,
He handed me a letter and left,
I was too baffled to respond, and by the time I regained my composure,
I called out to him, but he had vanished into the crowd.
Still unsure, I decided to open the envelope,
Out came a handwritten letter, signed as Mr. Simple Man.
The who, what, and why of it all were too much to grasp,
I forgot the pronouns and nouns of French in the confusion,
But I decided to keep reading.
It said nothing—absolutely nothing,
Just random letters strung together.
Oh, wait! In my confusion, I had been reading it upside down.
Silly me, I thought.
It actually said a lot—things about a writer for a generic English newspaper.
But what does that even mean?
And why are there strange lines and sentences telling me everything will be alright?
Why does it all seem so familiar?
It felt senseless.
Oh! I still need to study the nouns and pronouns of French—what a waste of time,
I decided to tear the letter, but then thought of returning it.
I’d seal it and drop it in the postbox,
But to my surprise, there was no stamp.
Now I’d even have to pay for that!
What a terrible person he was, I wondered who he might be writing to.
Then it hit me—it said he was nothing but my younger self.
Suddenly, everything made sense,
For only I post letters without stamps.
Often incapable of measuring true wisdom,
Really wise words that I once didn't understand,
Years back, I was a naive boy,
Obsessed with little numbers marked in red all over,
How funny it seems to me now.
Once, I was running late for an exam, with a train still to catch,
Unaware that this journey would change my life forever.
Traveling by an old, rusty, dusty seater coach was no hobby of mine,
But a necessity.
The coach was pretty much full, except for a seat here and there.
As soon as I found one, I started studying.
After all, it was French—a very strange language,
Where romance and revolution happen together.
I was seated in front of a very strange man,
He was stealing glances at me here and there,
Sending a chill down my spine.
I tightened my grip on my bag as I tried to catch a glimpse of his face behind the generic English newspaper.
He had brown eyes and black hair, not much different from mine, I thought silently, tightening my hold even more.
But then, I realized it was more important to focus on cramming the French language than worrying about this stranger.
The stranger rose, and I tightened my grip,
He handed me a letter and left,
I was too baffled to respond, and by the time I regained my composure,
I called out to him, but he had vanished into the crowd.
Still unsure, I decided to open the envelope,
Out came a handwritten letter, signed as Mr. Simple Man.
The who, what, and why of it all were too much to grasp,
I forgot the pronouns and nouns of French in the confusion,
But I decided to keep reading.
It said nothing—absolutely nothing,
Just random letters strung together.
Oh, wait! In my confusion, I had been reading it upside down.
Silly me, I thought.
It actually said a lot—things about a writer for a generic English newspaper.
But what does that even mean?
And why are there strange lines and sentences telling me everything will be alright?
Why does it all seem so familiar?
It felt senseless.
Oh! I still need to study the nouns and pronouns of French—what a waste of time,
I decided to tear the letter, but then thought of returning it.
I’d seal it and drop it in the postbox,
But to my surprise, there was no stamp.
Now I’d even have to pay for that!
What a terrible person he was, I wondered who he might be writing to.
Then it hit me—it said he was nothing but my younger self.
Suddenly, everything made sense,
For only I post letters without stamps.
Comments
Post a Comment