Wandering Feet

A warm morning in Seville. The alarm rings and our travel wearied bodies rouse themselves. We dress with unhurried ease and only a flippant glance at the clock reveals that our train to Cordoba leaves in less than 30 minutes. After a flurry of clothes being flung into suitcases, laces being tied and a hurried thank you note to our host, we are on the street. We arrive at the station with 5 minutes to spare and have no time to flinch at the cab fare. As we run towards the platform, weighed down by unwieldy suitcases, relief begins to flood over us, knowing we will make it in time. The impassive ticket checker stands at the top of escalator. I show him my ticket and he lets me pass. I start moving down on the escalator, looking back at Aathira who is still fishing for her ticket in her overcrowded bag. She yells down at me in a panicky voice that the ticket is not to be found.
I break into a cold sweat thinking of the months spent planning this trip, the excitement in the months leading up to it which made everything bearable and now the money we couldn’t spare to buy another ticket and more tickets because surely we will miss our connecting train to Granada. I have always hated stereotypes but I was neatly fitting in the Indians are always late category today.
I can hear her pleading with the ticket checker and yelling down at me to get on the train. He is shaking his head while Aathira gesticulates madly, trying to communicate in a language she doesn’t know. I look helplessly at the train which is waiting to lurch ahead. In one mad, incomprehensible moment he nods and lets her pass. The train doors close behind us just as we scramble in. The platform recedes and we look at each other with grins of disbelief on our faces.
A cold morning in New Delhi. I am back at my 4x3 cubicle now, wading through an ocean of documents. I look up from my laptop to stare at the postcards over my desk, accumulated over years of travel. I think of the Cordoba streets that smelt of orange, the elegance of the Royal Mezquita, the magic of the Alhambra and the kindness of strangers. I chase deadlines now, attempting to recall the indelible exhilaration of chasing (and catching) trains.