I sit in my car stuck at a train crossing under the shade of the Jinnah Flyover. There's nothing to do but to wait. Cars and motorcycles and rickshaws gather around the gates barring them from making the mistake of entering the tracks. Wherever they find space, they make it their place. Leave as little of a gap as possible so as to not let another vehicle occupy the space or use it as a way of passage.
Once the gate opens, it's where the flood of vehicles will overflow.
It takes longer than I expected, but the train does cross. Half the the train's compartments cross and it struck me.
I no longer count the compartments the way I used to when I was a child sitting on my dad's motorcycle. I would shout, "One! Two! Three!" and so on. I believe the longest I ever counted was twenty seven. At least that's what my memory allows me to remember.
Maybe it was lesser.
Maybe it was more.
My brother would count too. He would sit at the front of the motorcycle, with my dad sandwiched between two of his kids. Hilarious.
We would tally the counts. Of course for the most parts we would match.
When did counting compartments stop? I don't know. It used to be fun, but now it feels like an exercise on testing patience when I myself am the driver. Was that how my dad felt when he would take us out and had to wait at the train crossing? Maybe I think to much about it.
I simply didn't count today. How life changes as you grow up...