Me At Chetpet Station

      A peaceful afternoon here at Chetpet station. I'm waiting for a train. I have been to this specific station before and I have to say, it is really an underrated one. Underrated as in how surprisingly quiet and peaceful it is despite literally being in the centre of the city. Even my destination, despite being twenty kilometres away is extremely crowded and loud. But in here it feels like you have stumbled upon a station twenty years into the past. It is to be noted that the station has a beautiful lake on the north while there's a whole suburban neighbourhood to the south. 

        Silly me decided to go through the suburbs instead of taking the high road. Back home in our town, we have these houses built right next to each other with little to no gap between them, and no front yard. Some houses even share the same wall and would have these small trapdoor kind of windows for communication. Although new modern housing is replacing them, here it is. 

(My Town: if you observe closely, the previously open sitting area in the front has now been replaced with a long iron window and a door for privacy)

        Now walking through the suburbs, it gave me an alarming yet a comfortably feel at the same time. Alarming since I felt like I was intruding the community. Comforting because there was a general welcoming atmosphere to the place. The streets were squeaky clean. There was a calm cool breeze even though it was high noon. There were trees sprouting out from nowhere and many many corner shops with people manning the fort. 

   As I walked forward I saw this tired cat walking towards the middle of the road approaching some piece of food lying around. It barely noticed me and carried about its buisness. 

    Back home if you would walk around at noon, you would find the streets completely deserted with a death like silence lingering over you. Here however, it appeared as if life had eased out a bit slowly going into a long comfortable sleep. 

     

     This got me thinking. How much is the writer affected by his environment. Last Christmas on our little family trip we stumbled upon the house of Malayalam writer Thakazhi, which has been turned into a museum. He had won the 'Jnanpith Award', the highest Indian literary award, back in 1984. The guide told us how his poems were deeply inspired from the beautiful rural lands where his house was located. Come to think of it, we have a whole line of romantic poets like Wordsworth with their avid depictions of nature while we have modernist poets with a disillusioned approach towards their world. 

        I have read somewhere that the poet is always in a constant state of anxiety and nervousness. This is supposed to push him to create art. Well I do agree and disagree. I agree because he is forced to escape lethargy to create, but disagree since art comes in all shapes and forms, some too early others a bit late. 

     Standing behind the yellow line, I looked at both ends of the track to the horizon where the rugged silver brown lines seem to dissappear. Oh look! My trains here!

Lan