Thursday, October 19, 2006
TRAFFIC JAM & BREADWrite a description of the rush hour
The sun touches the west horizon, sending slivers of pink and gold across the blue sky. It is six ‘o’ clock on a Friday night and the familiar sound of beeping Mass Rapid Transit entrance doors reaches my ears, from the top of the tall escalator, bringing me closer to the underground transport system. A myriad of colours fill the City Hall Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) Station. Tall figures clad in suave shirts linger around the notice boards in the station, probably awaiting their dinner dates. Hear the numerous clicks of heels, as the female working population seeks to leave the station. See a confusing array of escalators, each leading to a different MRT line.
The speed at which the crowd moves quickens, as the digital board, stating the time at which the next train arrives, changes to two minutes. Commuters rush, jamming up escalators while others walk swiftly down the staircases to reach the train platform. Amidst the chatter of colleagues awaiting the arrival of the next train, slogans and unique tunes can be heard- coming from the television screens situated at the station. As crowded as the platform is, each individual has on his mind has plan for the coming weekend. Each working adult finds a different object to sub-consciously focus on while awaiting the train.
Females glance at reflective glass doors, checking to see how tired they look, or how messy their hair had gotten. Amongst the crowd, a plump man dressed in a poppy red shirt speaks loudly into his mobile telephone, attracting stares from the other commuters in the area. A woman carrying a butterscotch briefcase catches sight of the headlights of the oncoming train and takes one step closer to the doorway. The more impatient people ignorantly block the doorway by standing right in the middle- leaving no space for the alighting passengers. Bodies brush against each other for a brief second as people pack into the train. One can no longer scent the smell of her fragrant new perfume. Briefcases in the hands of a working adult are a familiar sight, though the train in undoubtedly full. The woman standing closest to the door of the train feels most uncomfortable; she has little space, and lesser still to keep her balance. Tolerating not the stale air she receives, she pushes her way through impatient commuters as she alights at Orchard MRT Station.
The crowd at Orchard Station is no less than at City Hall Station. Most adults enter the station and fewer in number are the families alighting to proceed to dinner at a nearby shopping centre. As the woman travels back to the ground level, with her butterscotch briefcase still in hand, she sighs in relief- glad for the fresh air. She pauses for no more than five seconds, and then heads for the nearest taxi stand. Her nose scents the hint of exhaust as she sees the metal plates of cars jammed up on the road. Every evening, the same scene repeats, each car is like a beetle, scuttling home. Headlights cease to move as the traffic light turns red. She crosses the road with haste rushing to keep up with the fast pace.
All around her is the sight of many things and crowds of people. The flow of people heading for the MRT station seems unending, as is the bulk of cars heading out of Orchard Road. She observes the fashion of the people around her, as she steadily heads for the taxi stand. Her heels begin to give her blisters as she finally reaches the taxi stand. A long queue of people allows her to reach home later than she had expected, yet earlier than usual. After almost half and hour of fashion-observing while waiting in the snake of the queue, she enters the comfort of a taxi. Her watch beeps seven ‘o’ clock and she finally scents the smell of soothing lavender air freshener. In the calm of the taxi, she gently touches up her make-up, purposely ignoring the traffic jam outside. The rush hour had yet to be defeated.
sprinkled in glitter.
4:56 PM
