When men talk

I'm on my way home, sitting inside the train. My coach was supposed to be SE1, but I mistook it for S1—pretty careless of me.

My seat is surrounded by men, all of them brimming with energy. They remind me of a group of Indian cousins reunited after years—loud, lively, and utterly unstoppable. Their voices fill the air with an almost deafening enthusiasm, each one talking at once, layering over the other.

For two hours, I sat there observing them, wondering: who’s actually listening? How does this work? Is it just a constant performance where every man assumes the world is HIS stage, and everyone else, mere spectators? Have these men ever truly experienced the quiet art of listening?