The Sheep, The Seat, and The Subway

Hurry, Hurry – But Why?

By Muthukumar Elangovan

Every act is a tiny battle. Like getting an elevator from the top floor, darting out of the office, and making it to that subway train – even though there’s another one in five minutes. But no. I must reach my nest as early as possible. It’s irrational, but this irrationality drives the logic of rush hour survival.

Getting into the train car isn’t the final goal – it’s merely the first crucial victory in the war that is the daily subway commute.

Let me explain for those blessed souls who’ve never experienced it.

As soon as the gate opens after I tap my metro-card, I run like a sheep set loose – no purpose, just panic masked as routine. A sheep on the outside, but inside, a burned-out salaryman chased by capitalism. I sprint down toward the platform with the urgency of someone chasing meaning, but really, I’m just chasing a place to stand.

As you step onto the platform, you line up politely. You might even feel calm. But then you hear it – that deep thudding underfoot – the train approaching. Your heart rate spikes just slightly. You must get in. Especially if you’re at the back of the queue.

When the train arrives, you don’t worry about brushing past people or shouldering through because you’re already mentally prepared to dodge the people who morph into statues in front of the door. The ones who never move, no matter how many people need to enter or exit.

Now comes the real question: Where to stand?

Do you squeeze into the middle and hover in front of someone already sitting, hoping they’ll get off soon? Or do you park yourself among the immovable statues near the doors?

The answer depends on your destination.

If I’ve got just a couple of stops to go, I become a statue too – frozen, immobile, spiritually dead inside. But if I’m in for more than a 30-minute ride, I transform into a subway bull – muscling into the crowd, looking for that tiny human-sized gap where even chopsticks would feel cramped.

Then there’s the most frustrating game of all: standing in front of a seated person and hoping – praying (yes! I become religious here) – that they’ll get off at the next station. It’s a daily act of involuntary gambling.

You scan for signs: Do they fidget? Do they turn off their phone? Are they eyeing the station map? Each minor movement is a glimmer of hope. But more often than not, they’re just checking their own existence.

And that’s when the slow descent begins – your back starts to ache, your resentment bubbles. You begin cursing the universe, the city, your job, your life choices, the DNA that brought you here. Even the reflection of the beautiful woman beside you becomes a source of irrational hatred. You hate yourself for looking at her reflection, and then hate her more when she, having entered after you, lands a seat before you.

This is when the big questions hits: Why is life so unfair? Why does everything run on chance? Are we really living in a deterministic world ruled by chaos?

But then… a miracle. A seat!

Suddenly, I’m sitting. Possibly next to the same beautiful woman, not daring to look at her now.

I stare at my phone like it contains the secrets of dark energy and matter. And just like that, my ordeal sublimates, my world changes. Everything is cheerful now. I feel like I’m in the greatest city on Earth. My weekend plans bloom in my mind like cherry blossoms after a long, dry winter.

Now, I’ve become what I once despised: the guy warming the seat, oblivious to the poor soul now standing in front of me, hoping I’ll move.

Just as I begin to fully enjoy the simple pleasure of sitting in a subway seat, a halmeoni – as if summoned by fate – appears.

Oh no!

How can I let this elderly lady stand while I warm this seat?

This is when that small act of kindness kicks in – that which I learned from many kind souls throughout my life. I hide my exhaustion, and with pleasant face (I presume I can muster that up!), offer my hard-gotten possession…

“Anjeuseyo” (Please sit down).