Of Conversations that could have been and Loneliness

A man sitting on my seat offered to get up when he saw me undecided - should I ask him to get up or simply climb up the side upper berth?  I took the book that I was reading out of my backpack as he began to get up. As we stood side by side for a few seconds, he asked me, "What are you reading?" I showed him my copy of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Americanah. He tried to read the author's name and perhaps, failed. He returned the book with a look that made his friend chuckle. I wanted to tell him, it's a Nigerian name. I wanted to tell him that the title of the book is what Nigerians tend to call people who move to America, something like Amriki or Amrika-wale as we Indians might say in Hindi. I didn't want to explain without being asked, which was quite unusual for my ever-explaining self.

Later in the evening, as I climbed up to the upper berth, allowing my co-passenger to have the lower berth all to himself, I wondered about the former moment. I began thinking about a conversation that could have been had the man asked a simple question. Perhaps, he thought he didn't know enough on the subject and was scared of judgment or perhaps, he simply asked because some people usually do with no particular interest. In that moment I had hoped for him to be really interested in books. A conversation could have begun with what the book is about or how I got to know about a Nigerian author sitting in a train to Bangalore. It could have been about what interested me in the book and why. There could have been a shared laughter over list of things that are common to Africans and Indians when they look at America or move there with all their dreams – followed by breaking stereotypical ideas of Africa and how outsiders look at India. It could have led to what I like and dislike about the stories told, how people usually look at it and how he feels about it.

There could have been a long talk - the one that delved into our reasons and choices of doing and seeing things in the way we do while getting to know each other without asking or saying the 'About me' details directly. Yet, there were no such moments. A casual social question leading to a wishful bubble of interesting conversations with no foundation in reality later, I went back to reading my book.

Yet, I continue to wait for the moment when I will find somebody who wants to know me and tell his/her story without having to say, 'this is me and this is my story'. I wait for the moment when book nerds start discussing about their love for stories that somehow, even in the vaguest of ways, reflect them or a part of their life. I wait... for the moment when these book lovers admit that stories that touch their hearts remind them of who they were and are... that, they aren't lonely because someone sitting in Nigeria is writing their very personal experience which they perhaps won't begin to tell. That story, from miles and oceans away, gives them the reassurance of believing in who they are and that's all that matters in the end.