So the other day I was travelling home on the Tube from work. The carriage was less crowded than usual which meant I had the luxury of a seat. My ears were semi-sealed with earphones; my nose was buried in a book. I was twenty minutes from my stop in West London but my head was in the south of Sri Lanka, where this particular book was based. (more on that one later). When I did shift my gaze away from the page, it was only to watch the late evening sun cast its rays across the grey linoleum floor, briefly lending it the appearance of freshly laid concrete.
All of this might explain why I was only vaguely aware that the seat next to me had been vacated a few minutes earlier, and that a guy who was previously standing in the corner of the carriage was now gravitating towards it.
As he sat down, his bag brushed against the side of my book. He quickly apologised, an apology I heard despite the music still coursing through my reasonably-priced earphones. (Given that I can't recall what song it was, it must have been both mellow and unremarkable. I really must update the trusty iPod). I responded with a polite 'it's ok' and actually meant it, before returning to southern Sri Lanka.
At this point, my new neighbour leaned forward and asked me what book I was reading. I probably should mention that although I have trawled my memory to try and attempt an accurate recollection of events, I cannot recall whether I actually heard the words 'What book are you reading?' or whether I somehow inferred this via a combination of on-the-spot body language analysis and lip-reading. (the latter is not as implausible as you might think- I am borderline MENSA)
Either way, I found myself unplugging my right ear just as he was finishing his question. Convinced he was asking about the book, I give him a little blurb. I wasn't prepared for a follow-up question but it came anyway. Over the next few minutes, I was somehow given all sorts of details regarding his job, the area he lived in and the part of India he was from. I listened with one earphone still in my ear, and one finger still between the pages.
Eventually, I took the second earphone out and closed the book. Probably seeing the slightly disappointed look on my face, he apologised for the intrusion but I assured him it was fine and half-meant it. I had resigned myself to engaging in conversation for the remainder of the journey but was not expecting what happened next.
'Hey, we should keep in touch, can I have your number?', is a question you'd think would be slightly awkward in most social contexts, let alone when it's directed at someone you've just met on public transport. But that is exactly what he said. The funny thing was, it wasn't awkward at all. It seemed genuine, friendly, and, amazingly, like the most natural thing in the world.
And yet...
For some unfathomable reason, I did the thing which I've heard about before but had never actually done - I gave him my number with one wrong digit.
I regretted this almost as soon as I finished saying it. I pictured my younger, more trusting self, standing in the corner of the carriage and casting me a disappointed look. I looked away as the guy tried to call the number so I would have his. (there was no network, so he sent a text instead)
For the next few minutes, he carried on chatting cheerfully with me about his family, his parents who were visiting for the first time from India, and what a nice change it was to talk to someone on the Tube, before he finally stood up and said his stop was next. He then extended his hand, said goodbye, and walked to the door. A few seconds later as the doors slid open, he called out 'Bye, Ajay', smiled another big, happy smile, and then he was gone. It occurred to me that I didn't even remember his name.
As the train pulled away, I sat hunched in my seat and stared at the floor as I tried to figure out why I had done what I had done. I could come up with no good reason for not giving my number to this seemingly kind, genuine person who had walked over from a corner of the carriage to sit down next to me with no agenda other than to make a connection; a normal, human connection, in an otherwise soulless Tube made of steel.
I continued staring at the floor and noticed the colour had changed a bit. Perhaps the concrete had set- both on the floor and somewhere within as well. My heart sank with the setting sun.
I have a feeling I will always remember that day and that little incident, maybe even more than I might have done if I'd given him my real number. It was the day suspicion won. And something precious was lost.
