Train rides have never been more eventful with unexpected sightings and experiences. They never fail to portray the cosmo political nature of our state with a mix of a dozen different tongues and practices interacting under a common roof. Even when I was catching the last train home late at night, the queer settings of been part of a globalised population has made us unique.

A train ride depicts the tale of a life journey applicable in most of us. The origin station is left trailing miles behind after our train departs, whenever we initiate to something from our current situation. The destination station is already pre-determined since we know where we are going to alight. Along life’s journey, we are faced with a myriad of challenges and experiences, which are parallel to the pleasant and disgustingly forgettable moments in that packed carriage.

The sight of a lady with a protruding belly beats any anesthetics administrated by doctors to put patients to sleep with unprecedented, immediate shut-down effects. The tranquil journey to work is sometimes interrupted by high-decibel, phone chatters that transcend carriages, a feat which few are capable of. Nobody likes to be caught in a sardine-packed carriage during peak hours, but my frustration is compounded by the selfish acts of some commuters who can’t seem to stop leaning their back against the holding poles, thus depriving others of a supporting handle. I am not stereotyping any particular group because I have seen Bangladeshi, PRCs, Sickaporeans and Sillyporeans doing it. These 2 terms aren’t coined by me, but are gaining popularity stakes as net lingoes.