Known Strangers

 Known Strangers


It's so beautiful to aimlessly philosophise on how not everyone in our lives is a stranger or a family member: some lie in between these extremes. Some strangers are familiar. The people in your bus, the coffee shop you frequent, the neighbourhood you have grown up in: they aren't entirely unknown, but more like acquaintances than anyone you can truly depend on for the occasional, much-needed rant. Over time, their faces become familiar; they are a part of our consciousness, seeping into our daily routines. And we don't see them in the same place the next day, we can't help but wonder why.


We share a few occasional conversations, an exchange of details, and as I walk away, I am struck by the kind of warmth that even a person I considered a stranger could possess. There's still a wide gap to bridge, but you know that they would be strangers you would recall. These are the people who will flit to the edge of my mind as you laugh with friends when telling the tales of being late for an 8 a.m. bus, or that frustrating trip to the store outside your apartment. And then these are the people on the periphery, the ones who congratulate you for your win at the arcade, who you ask for the train schedule, the ones who watch you grow up. 


They have been here for many years, along with you, and will be here for many years to come. You do not know their names, but you have been going to the same stores for ages: from taking a printout for a school picnic to a xerox for your visa application. From getting that 'cool' eraser shaped like a football to a gel pen for an exam that decides the direction of your life. From asking them for directions to the train station to the small smile you give every time you are on your way to college. 


I’ve trusted the same place with the same faces behind those counters for so long. 


The same panipuri, the same person at the counter making them, the same family giggling over their bowls. The bus at the same hour, the same bus conductor, the same people. The same sweets shop, the same 'known' strangers, the same me. I do not think I will ever know their stories, but I will forever know their faces. Whether you refer to them as ‘the lady with the red hair’ or ‘the man who’s always in formals’, ‘the girl who might be my age’ or ‘the boy who’s so incredibly tall’, you remember the people that make up the intertwined web of these strangers, the warmth that comes with knowing that this is a place where you will invariably belong, the familiarity they bring for being part of your routine for one more day. 


Written by Ishwari Deshmukh 

Edited by Rashee Shetty

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