Entries of an escapist

The beige upholstery of the sedan smelled of potpourri. The only other occupant of the vehicle not at the wheels, was crouched at the farthest corner of the rear seat, face in her two slender hands, shoulders trembling and almost helplessly leaning against the back door, presumably for the lack of available human support. She was perspiring profusely, despite the biting chill of the air conditioning and it was rather impossible to tell whether this nameless female sat laughing or crying, hard. She shook however, overcome with a deep trauma and a set of high impact occurrences. Certainly not in unspeakable euphoria. Durga, 25, a literature graduate from the subcontinent's top university for the humanities, employed with a massive profit-churning publishing house - had lost a father and left a boyfriend, all within the span of one solar day.
The passenger train waited with an impatient demeanor, as if fuming in an unfathomable old anger. It was way past midnight and the platform stood almost empty, stripped of its adornments, silent and contemplating. The musky odor of the night wrapped her in a longing embrace as she stood, a solitary figure at one end of the platform waiting to board an aberrant train. The warm air reminded her of the light golden fuzz on the back of his forearms, the smell of fresh sweat and Old Spice that she had learnt to associate with her lover of four years, and that of a strange woman on his sleeves. Within seconds, her pirouetting mind drifted to the thought of the father she'd cremated barely 24 hours ago, the sunlit evenings learning to play the sitar on the sprawling terrace of their townhouse, the difficult nights when he writhed in pain. She quietly picked up her backpack and climbed the three dinghy stairs to the sleeper class bogey.
Particles danced in the sunbeams that washed over her sleepy face, droplets of stubborn sleep still hanging from her upper eyelashes. She woke up to the smells of sugar syrup, fried savories and common soap while her eyes hungrily took in every inch of peripheral sight, that morning, in that quaint and unknown railway station. Her BlackBerry buzzed. She patiently waited for her Boss, to disconnect the call. A second later, she'd put it on Flight Mode.
That morning, she was 1200 miles from home, a month out of mourning and an eternity away from her past life, alone in an unfamiliar little town, preparing herself to begin living her new life and penning her new novel - 'Escaping an unkind past'..