My eyes ambled across the teeming train station, trying to intercept characters of the traversing passengers in the clamorous chamber. Devouring the stories carefully hidden beneath their veil-like eyes. Blue; hazel; tan to the glancer, but pain; joy; resentment to the beholder. As I scanned through the hall, my vision stumbled upon a pair of steel grey eyes staring down at a book.A shade I had never seen before. I felt my fingers jerk against the icy metal bench. The constant chattering of people interspersed with an occasional squabble, the swiping of passenger cards ,the screeching trolleys, and the sound of the pounding feet on the wooden floor evanesced in what felt like a nano second. 

I zoomed into the eyes. They were metallic grey, but not the regular kind. They were masked by swirls of white clouds that expanded and contracted with the rhythmic swivelling of the pupil. Like cream in a cup of coffee. Like a hurricane caged inside, striking against the glassy cuticle, pleading  to be liberated. I saw agony but I also saw strength. A form of grace so pure, I couldn’t help but look more closely. This time I hesitated as I peeled  another layer of the onion. Drops of emptiness began to uncover themselves, turning into a prodigious pool; a void. 

 I defocused from the eyes that were encircled by pale yellow creased skin, to further scrutinise the person. I started from the top. It was a woman, probably in her eighties. Her chalk-white hair was neatly crafted into a tight bun that glistened as the beams of sunshine seeped through the stained glass onto her circular, diamond earrings that  twinkled and dazzled to the cue of the light. Her dull and withered skin, dotted with tiny brown spots, drew a large contrast to her sheeny eyes. Her cheeks bulged and sagged. Her lips were frail and pursed, with the tiniest hint of rose pink. She was wearing a beige and off-white striped, cotton  dress that grazed her calves. Her fingers grasped the corners of the book ever so weakly, that it looked like the book might fall off any second, but it didn’t. Her feet were comfortably cushioned into ecru sandals, adorned with lace, that complemented her attire perfectly. A few inches to her left was her walking stick. Coated with a thin layer of leather, it leaned against the bench, no ticket in sight.

There was something about that woman that drew her apart. Not once had she lifted her eyes from the pages. Not even when I had stared at her, for what I calculated was, half an hour. There was something so delicate and brittle about her, like a piece that had been harshly torn from her heart, yet something that could just as easily be mended and healed again. A little love, a little warmth and maybe then the drops of emptiness would fade away.

-Ananyaa Sultania