Welcome to Chapter VII of my novella ‘Peeved’ releasing week by week! You don’t need to read the previous chapters to know what’s happening in this story, but if you’re interested I’ll put the link to them at the bottom.
Recap
The plan was simple: Speak my mind, fix the world.
My quest:
Number 1:Cut out the baggage in my life- Number 2: Make my quiet carriage always quiet
- Number 3: Start a revolt at Alliance that forces management to change the company culture
- Number 4: Stop my noisy neighbours from partying late at night
- Number 5: Make Samuel the laughing stock of the company
If I pull it off, maybe people would stop seeing me as just a little Indian geek they could slap around.
So far? I’ve made enemies, lost friends, drawn blood—some mine. Got written up for telling off a clingy customer, then verbally nuked lonely Gerry in the food court… and I’m only on step two.
I used to feel an overwhelming sense of dread hanging over me at the train station every day—Mondays were the worst, of course.
Maybe it was the fear of monotony, the perpetual cycle of the same grey train pulling up, me getting on the third carriage from the front, sitting in the same corner seat, expecting some asshole to ruin my few moments of peace.
An express train sped by. The sight of it made me shudder. Next time you see one, look at the glum faces seated in neat rows–headphones on, scrolling phones, clicking laptops, or all three.
We wait at the station, pushing each other to snag a vacant seat because, god forbid, we stand on our own two legs even though we sit at desks all day.
Caged livestock on our way to the slaughterhouse.
Watch cattle board a truck to the slaughter, clueless about what’s coming. We’re no different; we give our lives too, only our death is slower.
Sure, you may work in a trendy office with green space and kombucha on tap, but it’s like telling a chicken they are free range while packing 10,000 of you into a hectare.
The trains are the production line, offices the slaughterhouses. The crazy part? We’re the psychos who created our own slaughterhouse.
We figured out how to farm ourselves.
It had been two weeks since I started speaking my mind, and I could feel colour creeping back into the grey world. I wasn’t crippled by inaction anymore. I could feel my impact spreading.
My train screeched as it pulled in. The doors hissed open, and I boarded with my fellow travellers.
Bee-bum.
The robotic announcer warbled over the crowd, ‘Morning customers, this train will be a limited stops train to Central.’
Every seat was taken, as always, so I looked around to see the familiar faces of the morning crowd. A wave of joy came over me as I noticed the old red-faced man and the pregnant woman sitting and talking to each other. Remember them from my first day on my quest?
He’d refused her a seat before, but now they were best pals.
It felt great knowing her commute was easier now, that she was getting a seat. She looked about ready to slide a baby out this morning.
Okay, before you say it, yes they were talking on a quiet carriage, but because they were regulars, and they were whispering, the rest of us gave them leeway. No official acknowledgement–no weekly morning train crew meetings–but we all knew it was okay.
***
One Thursday evening, I entered the quiet carriage on my way home and heard a man talking loudly.
‘These numbers are killing me, Quentin. We need a new strategy for Q3.’
I drew closer and saw a suited man with his laptop out, having a meeting right on the train. The scrunched-up faces and scowls on every commuter told the story.
Most of us get on the same morning and evening train and carriage. You start recognising the same faces:
The older professional couple–the woman with straight brown hair, always dolled up, and the bald, stocky man, probably a manager. They get on together every morning, cuddle on the two seaters, and always kiss goodbye.
The young girl in metal band shirts–today it was Iron Maiden–grooving with Bose headphones on, laptop open, making beats on something like Logic Pro.
In the middle sat a woman with bags under her eyes and blonde hair in a bun. I figured she was a teacher.
And the tiny old man who squished himself into the corner, hiding behind his bag twice his size,
I wondered what they all labelled me–’Andry Indian nerd?’ I knew I was making an impression, though.
How?
By the look of relief when they saw me arrive. The dolled-up lady gasped while the tiny old man in the corner smiled and gave me a little wave.
We passengers love our boring, quiet rides home, but people like Business Boy here often make annoying cameos in the ‘Quiet Carriage’ show.
If it wasn’t a business type having a phone meeting with someone, it’s either screaming teenage girls or a stoner guy on the phone, ’Bro, I can’t believe we smoked two billies last night! Fark, you got sooo blazed, you pussy.’
Like all of them, Business Boy needed to be taught a lesson.
I waved at him and pointed at the “Quiet Carriage” sign. He noticed me, then turned to the window and shouted, ‘No, you idiot!’
The older couple nearest him jumped at the outburst. Others turned and stared, but no one spoke up. The Business Boy yelled, ‘Get him in the conference now!’
I called out, ‘Hey!’
He glared at me, so I said, ‘This is the quiet carriage, have your meeting somewhere else.’
He leered but looked away again, yelled, ‘Look, I don’t care if he’s in Malaysia, get him on the fucking phone now!’
Could you believe this guy?
But before I could say anything, the woman with bags under her eyes stood up and said, ‘Get out!’
The manager guy from the older couple added, ‘Bugger off, you bloody idiot.’
And a DJ girl took off her headphones and called, ‘Just piss off already!’
The Business Boy’s face turned red, ‘What the fuck is all your problems? I’m on the phone.’
Some passengers got up and crowded him, jeering.
‘This is a quiet carriage!’
‘Get the fuck out!’
‘We’re sick of your shit, mate.’
‘I’ll throw that laptop out the window in a minute.’
Business Boy couldn’t do anything. How do you fight a mob?
‘Quentin, sorry mate, something’s come up. I’ve got to go. Talk soon.’ He hung up and packed up. The mob marched him out, his face burning with shame.
It was priceless. I felt a rush–like we were finally taking back a little bit of respect.
My fingers and gut were tingling with excitement. I just watched. It was their show now.
And I loved it.
***
The train rides might have been a small battle, but the war for respect was spreading beyond the carriage.
Now, whenever someone made too much noise on our carriage, one of the regular crew—usually not me—would tell them to stop or leave. Other regulars would pile on until the offender conformed or left. Every time it happened, it felt like the first. I watched in amazement.
That wasn’t all. When we got off the train and hit the escalator, anyone blocking the walking lane got shoved aside or yelled at.
Look, I don’t condone violence, but damn, it was good to see people getting the message.
Respect wasn’t just a whisper anymore—it was a roar.
Number 2: Make my quiet carriage always quiet
Isaiah Prasad 