Maya Mehrotra

The reflection of the inside of the train in the window is meshing translucently with the outside world. It creates a second car, a ghostly companion to the vessel carrying me home. In tandem, people come and go, strangers drifting into sleep, temples against cold windowpanes, cold windowpanes against ghostly temples, rocking together with the gentle sputters and creaks of a functioning vehicle. There is a quiet sense of solidarity in the air. People retreat down the steps and pass by the window, their bundled figures passing through the reflection of their vacated seats.

It’s almost like a picture show, the scenery outside. Different mindsets would lead you to different conclusions, but to me, on this night, it seems comfortable and routine. Drifting past intermittently lighted windows, I see silhouettes of people inside, bits and pieces of their lives overlapping with mine in one unknowing moment. As we proceed, the perspective of the rooms change, giving me a shadowy snippet of the interior. I tend to wonder what moment I’ve seen. Was it a small interaction, a lonely night, a tearful goodbye? I’ll never really know, just what my gut tells me and what I convince myself is true. I guess that applies to a lot of things. Like the motion of the train. If I try hard enough, I can briefly convince myself that the train is moving in the opposite direction. It’s dark, so if we’re passing a tree-filled area, streetlights and my peripheral vision won’t ruin my focused illusion. It’s strange to think that false beliefs can seem so real sometimes. Even when you know in the back of your mind that you’re fooling yourself.