Drops of life

Seven a.m. at the train station with the morning paper,wrapped in a jerkin and looking at the rain pour from under the umbrella.
You pace up and down the platform slowly after an all night excursion at a disc, smell of nicotine in your hair and clothes, music still playing in your ears and little picures that your mind took while your little Chinese friend showed off marital arts skills to the sounds of thumping Bollywood " masala" numbers.
Your train pulls in, a seat near the window beckons you. However, you hang on near the door. The sun just wonders whether he should turn a little and take an eeny weeny nap before a full days work begins.
You journey begins. Speed increases. The familiar feeling sets in as you stand there looking at the tracks.
Jump.
You look away for a moment. Wonder if it will hurt. If it will cause a few scratches or more.
Windows of apartments glow with lights. The city is waking up. You wonder if they are kitchen windows. What is cooking. If the tea is ready and the bread is warm. Does the butter melt just the way you like it? If there is a happy family sitting there, all cuddled up in the rain, still in pajamas, smelling of sleep, smiling at the thought of their last dream and waiting for mummy to pass the cookies with the warm glass of milk.
You step slightly away from the door, sink slightly into the carriage.
Though there are these pretty Saturday morning moments which makes everything else seem like it is worth it, there is still a slightly unpleasent fact that you have to face.
One of those things which determine whether or not you grow up. Or so you think.
You donot matter.
That even if I have this incredibly gifted, blessed life with all the luxuries I can ask for, all the love I can think of, if I were to vanish, to cease to be one fine day, just like that, your life still goes on. You might feel the pinch initially when I am not around anymore, but your life goes on never the less.
Time might stop occasionally if you catch my smell when you open the closet door, but all in all the other 23 hours and 59 minutes will easily be spent sans me.
I donot matter.
And then you smile sweetly at this seven year old boy selling red flowers on rainy days.