The 6 train at 8:42am is a religion I never chose but attend daily.
I got on at 51st and Lexington this morning, wedged between a man eating a bacon egg and cheese with the focus of a surgeon and a woman doing her eyeliner on a moving train, which is a skill I will never master and deeply respect.
Nobody looks at anybody on the 6 train at rush hour. This used to terrify me. Back in Ahmedabad, a stranger will ask your full life story and your marriage plans before the auto reaches the next signal.
Here, you are gloriously, brutally nobody.
I used to take it personally. Now I understand the rush hour commute is its own kind of gift. Eight million people and not one of them needs anything from you for twelve stops.
There's a Gulzar line my Nani used to hum, about how the crowd is the loneliest place, and she was right, but she never rode the 6 train. Sometimes the loneliness is the point. Sometimes you need to be a face in forty faces to remember you're allowed to just exist.
I watched my reflection in the dark window between Grand Central and 33rd. Tired eyes, good coat, the thrifted scarf I'm obsessed with. A whole person nobody was watching.
I got off at Astor Place and the morning hit me — pretzel cart smoke, someone arguing with a pigeon, the LES waking up slow and hungover.
The 6 train at rush hour doesn't care about you, and that is exactly why I love it.
Some days you want to be seen. Some days you just want to make it to work without being a main character.
Tell me I'm not the only one who finds the crowd comforting.
Love,