Looking for a face

When you begin to look for a face, you can't stop staring.

The Picadilly line is London's little moving beehive. At 8 a.m, its the hardest thing to find space on.

I could say he was Italian. He had to be. His hair was black. Long nose, broad shoulders, a casual kind of stance, holding onto to the pillar. He was immaculately dressed, like everyone else – tie and suit. But the first button undone is a dead give away you know, its “casual”. I would imagine he could say “Buon giorno, Principessa!” just like the lead in 'Life is Beautiful' and be very savvy about wine. There was no sign of the western placidity on his face. But wait, he could be Greek too I suppose. I can't say, not yet.

She was sitting. Legs crossed. The cream sweater, gray skirt, black shoes, brunette. She had very flushed cheeks. French manicured hands, holding on to an ipad. Eyes were blue, tending towards gentle gray. Kind of reminds you of a gentle aquatic bird, who would peacefully fly short stretches, but then would stop for tea. When I looked up to meet her eyes, she smiled. A kind of wordless “hello there!” But it was a very formal smile, like someone just shook your hand. She wore tiny ear drops. A kind of simplicity and elegance, that made sure no one would be offended. She had to be English, if I had to make a guess.

Somebody had to read the “Daily Mail”. He had a copy. Well, in his defence, its something to do on the silent, packed tube. He was middle aged, I could say. Black, very little hair, curly though. Thick lower lip. Atheletic. Very wise looking eyes, like a pool almost. I'm fascinated by how people's hands look, actually. His were those “no nonsense” types – very short nails, well cut. There was a kind of warmth around him. I guess I thought so cause I always imagined Mr.Braithwaite to look that way.

Stylish. Fashionable. Fur coated. Pink nail polish-ed. Young. Small eyes. Dainty. Talking to another girl in hushed, excited tones. “Sheng ma” One picks up Mandarin in London. She had a very determined look in her eyes. Something that would tell you, here isn't someone who shies away from turbulence. Now, if I hadn't heard “Sheng ma”, I would take my time to surmise a guess. It's not very easy for me to tell a Thai from Chinese. Heck, she could well be from Hong kong, she was very stylish. But its rare for someone in Hong kong to speak Mandarin, I suppose. They'd speak Cantonese. Something I wouldnt know anything about.

Ah, the heavy bags meant he was coming in from the airport. The Picadilly meant Heathrow. Casual tees, a tired, exhausted look, sneakers. Heck, where was his coat? Was “london” too warm for him? He was white, with brownish hair. Tall. Lanky. I tried hard to be able to say – but really, he could ideally be from anywhere. I wouldn't know unless he spoke. But speaking is a virtual no-no on tubes. Yes, cause talking is intrusive.

I know – she had to be Indian. The ring, the “mangal sutra”, medium height, brown,wearing formal pants instead of leggings. Confident. Beautiful eyes, almost fish like – she could very well be from Bengal. She wore earrings. Its probably cause I'm Indian, that I attribute a lot of patience and tolerance to all of us. I sort of can't really put into words the amount of things I could sense about her. Its too much information to put on paper. For starters, she'll know Sachin Tendulkar and Paani Puris.

When I had to make my way out, it was hard to move. Partly because there wasn't too much space and partly because it was hard to tear my gaze away. Cause when you look and you sense, you feel awe. Awe at finding the whole world, in the picadilly. It reeks beauty, you know. London is truly a work of art. And I just cannot stop staring.