The man on the train sat quietly looking forward.
He dressed in a long, colorful robe that reached his ankles. The robe itself an
intricate piece of work with varying patterns and textures. His leather hat included a foot-long feather
standing straight up. A chain wrapped around the hat and a metal outline of a
butterfly hung along the back of the hat. His beard was long, gray, and shaggy
and reached even further down than the feather reached above the hat. Around his
wrist was an orange, brown, and tan knitted bracelet about three inches in
width. He carried multiple items draped around his neck, including a couple
knitted bags, one that was pink and blue, and a knitted green scarf. Blue
pajama pants with some animal or object peaked out from under the robe when he
stood up. Hanging by a rope was a brass horn that jangled as he moved. He
carried with him a portable camping stool which he unfolded and set it next to
him. He never spoke, but then rarely do passengers on the train speak to each
other.
The man on the train exited before I did. As
soon as he left, I heard behind me the chatter and laughter of some teenage
girls. “Did you see that man?!” “Can you believe what he was wearing?” “Where
did he go?” “I hope this train moves quickly, so we can see him again?” “Oh
look, there he is on the corner!”
Mockingly, the girls judged the man, but I had
been the silent observer full of questions that shall linger for I will probably never
see him again. Though on the train near him for only a short ride, he caused me
to step outside of my concerns, away from judgment and simply wonder what life is like for someone so
different from myself, yet who breathes the same air and rides the same train.
My curiosity switched to high gear as I observed the other silent train
riders--to the young man with disheveled hair holding his bike, to the tall,
African American teenager in front of me with long shorts and headphones in his
ear, to the man with the camping backpack on his back complete with sleeping
pad. “Did the backpack contain his entire world’s possessions?” I wondered.
Who were all these silent individuals on the
train? Where were they each going? What was their story?
Did the man on the train
know where he was going? Who was he and why did he dress the way he did? He
stood out in the sea of faces and brought glances and stares his way. He wasn’t
trying to blend in, for clearly he would be noticed wherever he went, but did
he feel like he belonged? What was his story? Did he feel others laughing and
mocking his attire? Was he alone or did he have family to return home to? Did
he care or was he oblivious to what others thought about him? I shall never know the rest
of this stranger’s story, but oh, how the silent observer in me that day wanted
to know more about the man on the train. Alone in the world, yet surrounded by
people. Hopefully, I prayed, that wasn’t how he experienced his days and his
nights with no one to tell his stories to.
Who was this silent man on the train? Where was
he going? What was his story?
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