— Gowri Raj Varma
My family doesn’t travel much. They’re more of the “stay at home during the weekend lazing on the couch while watching a movie together on Netflix ” kind of people. The prospect of planning an entire trip for five people with vastly different schedules and interests has always resulted in petty squabbles, prolonged delays, and ultimately, empty suitcases. Mind you, it’s not that we didn’t go anywhere. Every now and then, when the ennui crept in, my parents would carefully, meticulously and over months, plan an easy vacation. Fun, beautiful, lethargic, short, convenient. But I was, and still am, restless. And the restlessness got worse during the pandemic. To cope with the lack of movement, I made a bucket list of places I would visit once I could get out again. On top of my list was the dream: solo travel. All the Instagram Reels coupled with my vicarious imagination meant that I’d already fashioned an entire travel mood board- think headphones and tote bags, pastel suitcases and bright clothes, a dog-eared book and fully stamped passport.
Two years later, I found myself in the streets of Montreal. The city is gorgeous and being accosted by muddy rain and messy construction sites as soon as I left the railway station didn’t change my mind. What’s more, I was by myself. No family, No friends. Just a girl who decided on an impulse to take the train from Toronto (where I was interning for the summer) because she wanted to prove to herself that she had the courage to embark on a journey on her own. My solo travelogues would be incomplete without recounting conversations with strangers. Some I met by chance, some I sought out. But all of them left indelible impressions, ones I will recite to my grandchildren as the cliche old lady reminiscing her youth.
I have two favourite strangers. Let’s call the first one Sunshine, because that is what she felt like. Effervescent, warm, joyful. I met her in a bakery on my way to a cabaret show, coincidentally because I was taking the young woman’s advice and asking people for directions. Sunshine apologised to me, saying she had no idea where the show was, but offered me a delicious free cupcake as solace. I didn’t think I would run into her three hours later at a grimy poutine store, but there she was, perfectly coiffed brown curls shining under the LED lights. We realised we were going the same way, and walked to the metro together. I was secretly glad that I didn’t have to spend my first night in Montreal figuring out directions on my own, and she seemed glad for company too. As my metro stop neared, we realised we were unwilling to part ways just yet.
And we didn’t. We promised to meet each other the next morning inside the Notre Dame Basilica. As I sat there marvelling at the sheer beauty of the church, lost in thought about god, religion, and other insignificant things, she slid in the booth next to me and pulled my hand, urging me to embark on the rest of the day’s adventures. And an adventure it was. You get a glimpse of a city’s beating heart only through a local. I now know where to get Montreal’s best red bean paste buns and boba. I’ve learnt that the city’s (apparently) coolest thrift store, located in an unassuming alleyway within the artsy Plateau district, also sells extraordinarily tasty samosas. And through Sunshine’s anecdotes about Montreal, I peered into her own life, one that was wildly different from my own. She believed in the cosmic powers of astrology and crystals. She preferred working over attending university. She seemed to love cigarettes just as much as I hated them. But her first heartbreak was at age sixteen, just like me. Her go-to doughnut filling was custard, just like me. She couldn’t fall asleep without two pillows, just like me.
Our goodbyes were abrupt; I had evening plans with other people I had met the previous night, and she had to leave for work. We didn’t do the whole “I hope we text each other regularly” thing because we knew it was highly unlikely. I would be in India in a few months, and Sunshine wanted to go back home to Morocco. But we did promise each other this- that anytime we were to find ourselves in the other’s part of the world, there’d always be a warm welcome and a place to stay.
The funny thing about my other favourite stranger is that I don’t remember his name. I think it started with the alphabet ‘A’, so let’s call him that. We met on the train from Montreal to Ottawa, a two hour journey that I was prepared to spend sleeping. A true gentleman, he helped me with my bags, and offered to switch seats so I could sit by the window. He was Indian, and it was pretty easy to strike up a conversation. As we exchanged pleasantries, I found out that he grew up in Chennai as well, not too far away from me. There’s a certain comfort in meeting someone from your home on the other side of the world; it shows that the earth isn’t as intimidatingly large as it seems.
‘A’ was shy. Not painfully so, but quiet in a sweet, almost childlike way. He was an engineer (of course, which Indian isn’t?) who was trapped in Montreal during the pandemic while pursuing his Masters. Strangely enough, apart from the concern for his ageing parents back in Chennai, he loved staying in during the pandemic. Montreal has painfully cold winters- think -30 celsius, and there’s a whole underground city connecting major centres, making navigation easier during those harsh months. ‘A’ told me he didn’t leave his apartment for 7 months. All his groceries and necessities were delivered, and because he had no roommates, he didn’t meet a single human in person for over 200 days. I thought of just how different I was; I spent all of the pandemic grumbling about my lack of social interaction when in reality, I was lucky to have most of my loved ones within close proximity.
We had so much to talk about in those two hours. With Sunshine, it was the personal stuff we talked about. With ‘A’, it was everything else under the sun. Poetry, politics and people. Chennai’s sambar vadai, uttapams and jigarthanda. The schools we went to and the streets we both agreed were too posh for us. How our names found every manifestation except the original at the hands of Canadians. How it was nice to meet a stranger on a train, just like in the movies, and have a wonderful conversation.
As the train approached Ottawa, ‘A’ remarked that he was surprised he didn’t touch his phone all this while. Sounding mildly wistful, he said that it was refreshing to talk to someone so candidly, stating that he hadn’t had connected with anyone in a long while. I smiled; while I couldn’t say the same, I did agree that it was the perfect way to spend a train journey.
We said goodbye and wished each other luck as we got off the train, and as I walked toward the metro station, I saw ‘A’ looking at me, hesitating to approach my direction. I could sense earlier as well that he regretted not exchanging our contact information. Perhaps, he wasn’t ready to bid adieu to this stranger. I will never know, because I will probably never see him again. And even if I did, I don’t think I would recognise him if he walked by me because I don’t even remember his face.
The romantic in me hopes that I will continue to travel alone occasionally. After all, you collect a little piece of every person you encounter. I am but a mix of everyone I have ever come across. And in times that I do need a break from the world I am familiar with, I hope that I will never stop having conversations with strangers I meet on the way.
Edited by Anoushka Agastya
Design by Shatabdi Deori
Article 19 