The tale of a moustache

Recently, while returning home on the metro, something funny happened.

Though it was a Sunday, the train was packed. I did not get a seat. At the Majestic station in the heart of Bengaluru, many people got off and I finally got a seat. As I sat down and looked ahead, I saw a broad face adorned with a rather odd but impressive black moustache. The moustache was dark and well-shaped; but the face behind it was wrinkled with age.

“What the heck!” I wondered if he had dyed his moustache, but no, it wasn’t dyed. There was no real moustache at all. He had simply drawn one using kajal and came out into the crowd like that.

It took me a few seconds to fully register what I was seeing. By then, the man had also noticed me staring. The moment my mind realised it was a drawn moustache and not a real one, a childish grin flashed across my face. The man guessed that I was laughing at him. My laughter became even harder to conceal. That’s perhaps the normal response when our funny crimes get outed. Young boys have the freedom to laugh in such situations. But having entered middle age now, where do I get that liberty from?

If I had a friend with me, we would have chatted, laughed, and brushed aside the situation easily. But there was no one. Before the man could get offended, I had to do something. Like a godsend, the train doors opened. Without even checking which station it was, I jumped out of the door and burst out laughing freely on the platform.

The world is indeed a comic place.

krishnagl@ncbs.res.in