Across the bars

The train was slowing down. The surroundings stopped whizzing by, gradually settling to softly roll past. I was already at the door, waiting to nimbly step off as it came to a halt. I was in a hurry. I always am in the mornings. There are trains to catch, taxis to grab, front-seats to aspire to, lifts to reach before the doors close, and emails to check. I looked back at the coach I was leaving. Several women putting away novels, newspapers, earphones, prayer books/beads, and combing their hair before getting to work, before any colleagues spot them with hair all askew. It was a colourful, crowded coach.

My eyes travelled across the coach to see the others - the ones separated by bars, who sit in the coach for the handicapped. The coach was grey and empty. Almost. As the train gentled, a man uncertainly rose in slow motion from his seat. It took him a moment to steady himself. His feet were of no use. Two crutches came down onto the steel floor, and he stood upright in the aisle. After stabilising for two seconds, he lifted his right crutch, again in slow motion. Cautiously, so as not to lose his balance, he raise his arm so that the crutch rose higher off the ground. Then, lips pursed in concentration, he touched the crutch to the walls of the coach. Missed once. Missed twice. And finally connected with his target. He turned off the whirring fan and lowered his crutch. As the fan came to a halt, the train did too. And he limped off the train and into the masses off to earn a living.