Glimpses into their world...

He doesn’t look very different from the rest of them. In his sixties, blond hair, piercing grey eyes, long slender fingers, characteristically silent and reading a book (presumably German). We stumble into the cabin where he is seated along with another elderly gentleman and a lady. Our greedy eyes scan the entire compartment and these three seats tempt our tired wandering selves. So we enter, loud and brash in their midst. Realization hits only too late that for the Europeans, all six seats occupied in a cabin is unbearably crowded. He gets up to leave but the lady beats him to it. She gracefully picks up her coat, gives us a very polite smile and walks away leaving us sheepish and guilt faced. We settle down with an occasional murmur and watch out of the window. The Czech countryside seems very pretty with lush greenery and box shaped cottages. He slowly asks us if we are from Inde. My eyes widen in surprise, happy someone in this firang land can actually place us correctly. We nod in agreement and slowly warm up to him. He turns out Austrian, has been living in Berlin for the past few years. He comes from a small village near Salzburg, he tells us. Around hundred people live there. It can get very cold and depressingly lonely to stay there at his ancestral house all on his own, he says. So he’s moved to the livelier Berlin it seems. I assume that he must be unmarried. He visited India a year earlier, he tells us. Great times he shared with his friend at Rajasthan and Goa. He questions us on our travelling plans. He gives his pecking list: Prague, Vienna, Paris, the best places in Europe. He was earlier a orchestra conductor, now teaches conducting as a course to music university students. Typical wannabe MBAs that we are, we start questioning him on the financial viability of such a career. He cites a six digit figure which makes us go green with envy. He answers our questions patiently but slowly moves towards describing orchestras, symphonies and operas. As he goes into a lecture interspersed with our curious questioning, we get a glimpse of Western Classical music. And his passion for music. He recommends we go and listen to the Vienna Philharmonic (thank God he gave that advice). As he leaves, he gives us his card and takes mine with impeccable etiquette. He waves us goodbye and disappears into the crowd. We look at one another, amazed by his life story. We also have an open invitation to his place at Berlin, if we should be there again J
She is statuesquely tall, brunette with beautiful eyes and porcelain skin. Wearing a very expensive satin blouse, grey sweaters, black skirt and a stylishly cut jacket. There is an effortlessly elegant air about her. I notice her at Brugges platform, looking distinctly out of place with her huge suitcase and two suits hangers she is carrying in her hand. I wonder what she is doing travelling by train. She acts like she hasn’t been to a train station in quite sometime. As I board the train and take the first four-seater to sleep off my walking induced tiredness, she stumbles into the compartment in her high heels. She can’t drag her seemingly very heavy suitcase and places her suits on the opposite seat. I mentally calculate the probable price of those suits after noticing the designer labels. I now notice the premium branded watch and the diamond rings glittering on her fingers. She must be a model, I speculate. I am beginning to feel all positively shabby sitting right opposite her. My eyes start scanning for S to go sit near him. She gives me an embarrassed smile and starts commenting on how heavy her suitcase is. I smile politely and ask her if she is on business. I am feeling pretty dumb almost immediately considering we are in one of the loveliest towns in Europe, called the ‘Venice of the North’ for its medieval buildings and winding canals. She says yes and no. She is an investment banker (poof…there goes my job predicting abilities L ) who came to Brussels for a conference and is visiting Brugges for a day. Am leaving by the evening flight, she tells me. She is in a talkative mood and I aid her by asking all the right questions. She starts telling her story, of a privileged life in Bosnia complete with French vacations and private schooling, becoming homeless and helpless when the war breaks out suddenly and finding her parents safe a month after they went missing. She describes the war in all its detail, but with journalistic objectivity. “We moved to Croatia, with no money, nothing, just happy to be alive”, she ruminates, her eyes suddenly shining. “I was your age then, twenty one”, she remembers and shakes her head. The next five years were spent in sweat and toil, attending college by the day, working by the evening to keep the house running and studying by the midnight oil. “It was the worst time of my life, worse even than the war because it was stretched out over such a long period. The best years of my youth, I spent toiling”, she smiles dryly. I wonder where this story is going and hope she doesn’t suddenly start crying. She was a good student though, topping all her exams, getting into a prestigious bank and rising quickly in the hierarchy. She quickly outlines her growth and success, professional, material and personal. She dated her colleague and married him two years later. She heads the FIS desk today, she says giving me her card. She suddenly opens her cell phone and shows me her six year old daughter’s photos. She is really smart, she beams with pride. As she starts her motherly complaints about her eating habits, I sigh and tell her all mothers crib. It is sometimes difficult being a single mother, she says introspecting. As we get talking about shopping for chocolates and the lace for sale at Brugges, the train reaches Brussels Centrale. She is in a hurry, anxious about missing her flight. She says a rushed goodbye and gets off with her luggage. As the damsel in distress tries to drag the suitcase, two men rush to help. I smile and wonder why she told me her story. Am still wondering…