A few days ago, I was with him at the Bambalapitiya railway station to entertain his indulgence in photography. He loves trains, was fascinated by them, and could not comprehend my lack of fascination in them.
As I watch him run behind trains, jump across the railway track while the train was dangerously parked for a few seconds, (with me shrieking in utter horror on seeing him run across the track in front of it), people around gave me their lovely look of typical inquisitiveness and disapproval. (They probably had their long list of things for the look, or it could have been sheer curiosity for all that matters.)
While the eyes around me made me feel as welcomed as a snake in a hen-pen, I was trying to ignore the eyes that wondered over me, scanning me, and making feeling me naked. I would ask whether he was done with his photography, allowing us to leave, escape the eyes that were stripping me, in silence but in all its bluntness as well.
As usual, man in his oblivion does not get it, and happily says,“Don’t you just love trains?”. And I as usual roll my eyes, clutch my handbag closer as more trains pass, more people running behind them to jump in, welcoming a ride of body-squashing.
Having finally got his master-piece, a photo of a father and son waiting for the train, he decides he is done with clicking.(Probably with a few looks from my side to help him speed-up his departure)
I drag him away by the hand, a sweat-pouring human being with a camera hanging by his neck, with an enthusiastic statement at regular intervals with all the enthusiasm in the world, “I wish there were more trains! I wish there were more trains!”
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