The Man (On the way from Kuala Lumpur to Johar Bahru)
The engine whirs on, but smoothly, quietly, not like the trains back home we're accustomed to. Everything sways in time to the train's rhythm; the seats, the luggage rack, the floor. And outside, it's started raining. In Malaysia, when the sky wants to rain, it opens up and rains with all its heart. My window is speckled with huge angry streaks of water. It's quite cozy like this, watching the landscape flicker past and the sky turn a stormy grey, from the comfort of my seat.
The train slowly pulls up at a station. This one's smaller than the others. The building is a faded yellow, plaster peeling off in places, with one central room serving as the waiting area. This must be what the real Malaysia's like, stripped off of all the embellishments that have been used to promote tourism in Kuala Lumpur. Judging by the size of the station, we've stopped at either a small city or a large town. The people grouped around the platform are all so interesting-looking and each one completely unlike the other. There's a brown-skinned girl in a tank-top and shorts, her skinny arms crossed over her chest, lost in thought, her bags at her feet. A Malaysian family stands close to my window; two women wearing the traditional baju kurung with matching head scarves are talking to a man holding a boy-probably his son-in his arms. Then there's the usual scattering of foreigners; they manage to find their way everywhere. I have to remind myself I'm one too. Beyond it all, the horizon is framed with towering green mountains, like colossal slumbering dragons, trees peppering their backs. Closer, there are rows and rows of oil palms planted close together, their leaves overlapping. And then in the middle of it all, there is this tired train station blending in perfectly with its surroundings. Yet again, I am overwhelmed at the beauty God has blessed this country with.
My attention is drawn to the family of four. I assume the younger woman is the man's wife, but they both look so alike, she could just as easily have been his sister. She's smiling through her tears as she hugs her husband goodbye, her glasses pressing into his bony shoulder, as he hoists up the black-haired kid and gives her a one-armed hug. The older woman (his mother, in all likelihood) pats him on both cheeks lovingly, the way only a mother can. He kisses his son, lets him go and then they all stand back as he finally hops onto the train and takes the seat in front of me. He's only got a briefcase with him, which is surprising. Judging by the way his family is dealing with this separation, you'd think he was going on a trans-continental trip. I can't understand it.
As the train comes to life, and the floor settles into its monotonous chug-chug, this man in front of me presses his face to the window and waves feverishly. On the other side of the glass, the women do the same. Slowly, inevitably, the train picks up speed and the scene is lost from view, like every other I've seen on this trip. But this one in particular has touched me. I'm bothered inside. And I don't know what it is exactly that's causing it. I watch the man for a while longer, his face reflected in the window opposite. He answers a call. Just before he picks up, I see the word 'Wife' flash up on his cell phone's screen. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.
It's sad. And not just because of the obvious reason; a train carrying this man away from his loved ones, leaving them behind to return to perhaps an empty, dark house, where they will try to ignore his gaping absence and go about their business as usual, until he comes back, if ever-for everyone knows how fragile human life has become in this world. No, I think I feel sad inside because all that I just saw has reminded me of how helpless we humans are in the face of emotions and responsibilities and this wide universe with all its methodical demands. A man can never do what he truly wants to do. After all, as you sow, so shall you reap. Maybe this man is only going on a short business trip, but the way his family wished him goodbye back at the station showed how much a separation from our loved ones-albeit temporary- can wreak havoc with our lives.
I don't know why this incident's stayed in my mind out of all the people and places I saw on our trip. Time and again, I've caught myself wondering whatever happened to the Malaysian man and his family, and where they are now, and how they're doing. Well, I like to think this story had a happy ending, that the man returned to the old-world train station in the midst of oil palms and rain forest-trees the very next day, and flung himself into his wife's waiting arms, that they drove down a quiet country lane, bordered by orchids, the night sky thick with stars, to their home, his mother waiting with dinner on the table, and their son, living proof of their love for each other, sleeping in the next room.
The train slowly pulls up at a station. This one's smaller than the others. The building is a faded yellow, plaster peeling off in places, with one central room serving as the waiting area. This must be what the real Malaysia's like, stripped off of all the embellishments that have been used to promote tourism in Kuala Lumpur. Judging by the size of the station, we've stopped at either a small city or a large town. The people grouped around the platform are all so interesting-looking and each one completely unlike the other. There's a brown-skinned girl in a tank-top and shorts, her skinny arms crossed over her chest, lost in thought, her bags at her feet. A Malaysian family stands close to my window; two women wearing the traditional baju kurung with matching head scarves are talking to a man holding a boy-probably his son-in his arms. Then there's the usual scattering of foreigners; they manage to find their way everywhere. I have to remind myself I'm one too. Beyond it all, the horizon is framed with towering green mountains, like colossal slumbering dragons, trees peppering their backs. Closer, there are rows and rows of oil palms planted close together, their leaves overlapping. And then in the middle of it all, there is this tired train station blending in perfectly with its surroundings. Yet again, I am overwhelmed at the beauty God has blessed this country with.
My attention is drawn to the family of four. I assume the younger woman is the man's wife, but they both look so alike, she could just as easily have been his sister. She's smiling through her tears as she hugs her husband goodbye, her glasses pressing into his bony shoulder, as he hoists up the black-haired kid and gives her a one-armed hug. The older woman (his mother, in all likelihood) pats him on both cheeks lovingly, the way only a mother can. He kisses his son, lets him go and then they all stand back as he finally hops onto the train and takes the seat in front of me. He's only got a briefcase with him, which is surprising. Judging by the way his family is dealing with this separation, you'd think he was going on a trans-continental trip. I can't understand it.
As the train comes to life, and the floor settles into its monotonous chug-chug, this man in front of me presses his face to the window and waves feverishly. On the other side of the glass, the women do the same. Slowly, inevitably, the train picks up speed and the scene is lost from view, like every other I've seen on this trip. But this one in particular has touched me. I'm bothered inside. And I don't know what it is exactly that's causing it. I watch the man for a while longer, his face reflected in the window opposite. He answers a call. Just before he picks up, I see the word 'Wife' flash up on his cell phone's screen. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.
It's sad. And not just because of the obvious reason; a train carrying this man away from his loved ones, leaving them behind to return to perhaps an empty, dark house, where they will try to ignore his gaping absence and go about their business as usual, until he comes back, if ever-for everyone knows how fragile human life has become in this world. No, I think I feel sad inside because all that I just saw has reminded me of how helpless we humans are in the face of emotions and responsibilities and this wide universe with all its methodical demands. A man can never do what he truly wants to do. After all, as you sow, so shall you reap. Maybe this man is only going on a short business trip, but the way his family wished him goodbye back at the station showed how much a separation from our loved ones-albeit temporary- can wreak havoc with our lives.
I don't know why this incident's stayed in my mind out of all the people and places I saw on our trip. Time and again, I've caught myself wondering whatever happened to the Malaysian man and his family, and where they are now, and how they're doing. Well, I like to think this story had a happy ending, that the man returned to the old-world train station in the midst of oil palms and rain forest-trees the very next day, and flung himself into his wife's waiting arms, that they drove down a quiet country lane, bordered by orchids, the night sky thick with stars, to their home, his mother waiting with dinner on the table, and their son, living proof of their love for each other, sleeping in the next room.
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