Rain's cold fingers

She was in the train, it had been drizzling outside and cold wind stripped through her face, her hair, the paddy fields outside and lush green.

Wet red-mud outside shone as if it rained blood, spread in abundance. There were puddles she saw, trees sped past, her tresses broke loose from the clumsy tie, the curls ran amok her shoulders, spinning and spiralling; she bothered the least.The rain shattered on her face into million droplets and there, for an instance, she was lost again, in deep dire thoughts. For others around her, she looked like a spectator, inspecting the fast moving world outside. Her left elbow rested on the train’s window pane with her ulna dangling down, her left temple slanted on the wet glass.

There were blue veins running at the back of her palm and they grew stronger in presence with her racing heartbeat. There was a prominent one that shone bright when things went bad for her or there was an air of tension; a sort of a signal, inbuilt warning system. She checked the way it moved; slimed up like a snake and moving like one when her knuckles lifted. The twines and twists; she loved them.

Such was it, the beauty outside that lend a shiver down her spine. Her thoughts came back to her, made her eyes wander over herself, the folds of her long kurta, light faded jeans, leading to her feet and toes for once. So deep veined her feet was that it seemed like an areal view of a dense town; crisscross lanes, crossroads and by-lanes, stops and turnovers, underpasses and flyovers, little lumps that formed turns and twists decorating the beneath of her skin. Poor old feet. Her's.

She wondered about where she was, all to realized that she had left her life, time and strength; never to return, to where it once she called home. A gradual goodbye.