The Fight

The train stalled at the platform, a struggle started, a struggle that had become commonplace in the mornings of people trying to get to their offices, trying to survive one more day, so that they could struggle again to survive another. Their bags lashing in and out of the choking doors and into the faces twisted in agony, their eyes look big, full of a fray and their mouths full of the war cries.

Out comes a man, out of the human cloud and gets hit by another hand from the crowd at the door. He hits back in rage and then the other retaliates, their arms moving fast against the background of colorful bags, puddles, and curious eyes. Their faces grimacing their bags falling, he one at the door gets down, forgetting his small office,his small brain,his small job,his small house,his small wallet, nursing his big ego. Both on the platform, fists move around in circles, scarred cheeks vibrate with rage and inertia, the crushing sound of polythene bags accompanies the slang thrown around. Laughter in the air, they have found a story to tell their comrades in the office, in the workshop, at the lunch table, in the toilet. They will think about it all day in flashes mixed with their problems, fees,rent,the monthly pass, the boss, old parents...

And about the war tomorrow.