Trivandrum Mail

1999

1999.

 The police officer’s presence was weighing on Nadira, as was the fact that he knew her name and she did not know his. She was sat right by the window, he was sitting next to the drowsing elderly lady, leaning back against the seat seemingly at ease, fingers tapping on his spread-apart knees, his trousers hitching up, exposing more than just his socks, also a bit of his legs, covered in curly dark hair. Nadira found herself wondering if he would stay in his uniform for the entire fourteen-hour duration of the train journey.

 She looked away from his leg hair and looked at his face instead – he had been looking out of the window but caught her eye at that exact moment, as if he had been waiting for the time she would finally look at him.

 They didn’t say a word. A vendor selling packed water walked down the aisle. She glanced at his bag, noticed the absence of a water bottle.

 “Aren’t you going to buy some water?”

 He didn’t break her gaze.

 “I have some.”

 “Where? I can’t see any.”

 “In a flask, in my bag.”

 She nodded, finally dropping her gaze because she couldn’t look into his laugh-lined eyes for too long, their openness unsettled her; she did not know what to do with it.

 “You shouldn’t bring flasks on train journeys,” she said, looking out of the window again. “You might lose it.”

 She felt like her mother, saying those words. She regretted it. The police officer found it amusing. He smiled; she did not see it.

 “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 There was silence again. Nadira took off her health sandals, curled up her feet under herself, her hands folded in her lap, calm as the train rocked them both in the same direction. The police officer unzipped his bag, took out a flask. He had a drink of water. She found herself looking at him again. He didn’t drink the water very neatly; a bit of it dripped down his stubbly chin, he wiped it with the back of his hand like a thirsty schoolboy. Then he capped the flask again, rotating the cap even though it wasn’t necessary, and stuffed it back into his bag. All throughout, his legs didn’t move – the way he was so still also unsettled Nadira, she felt as though he was so at peace and so comfortable with whatever he was doing or however he was sitting that he did not feel the need to move the position of his feet on the train floor, or cross his arms, or scratch his jaw.

 “What’s your name?” she blurted finally. She did not know what she expected or wanted from his answer.

 He looked at her as if he had known she was going to ask.

 “Shreyas,” he told her.

 They spoke like schoolchildren, no surnames given.

  Nadira did not know how to react, so she simply nodded, satisfied, and looked back out of the window. Her mind did not stray from the curly-haired police officer. He did not attempt to converse with her, out of shyness or because she simply wasn’t pretty enough, she did not know.

~