The train sped into the night and the passengers struggled to stay awake against the hypnotic rhythm of the travelling sounds which gently seduced everyone into sweet sleep. I was at the very back, facing the inmates of the compartment as we all gently bobbed as if performing some obscure Irish dance to an inaudible beat.
I knew the young man next to me was getting restless. Having already exhausted his conversational ammunition with the person on his right, he was looking for another captive. Which was me, of course. He started by asking for the newspaper, went straight to the ads for films and ogled at the steamy sirens who beckoned the viewer to see more of them in the cinema.
"I've seen this one," he said pointing to one especially buxom beauty standing next to a snarling impression of a man painted in blood. I told him I hadn't. Which was enough for him to launch into his life story. He worked in an antiques shop next to a cinema in Islamabad. The shop was owned by two brothers who had literally brought him up since he was a little boy. He was no relation to them, no, they had found him somewhere. He had paid back the kindness by serving the family by running the odd jobs, graduating slowly to being a house servant. He had his own room where he listened to music, he said with obvious pride. When he became a man, as he put it, the brothers had other tasks in mind for him.
By now I had been sucked into his world. He had the knack for story telling and one couldn't help but listen with interest as he animatedly moved his hands around. He was wearing a golden watch, fake but expensive, and joggers. The train sped on.