Killing a Babushka.

98 or 99, 8 in the morning and I find myself in a ludicrously crowded metro wagon hurtling north. I have managed to get in front of the doors so that when they open I don’t have to fight my way there to avoid travelling 3 stations further than I want to.

There is a language formula that operates here, you say to the person in front of you “Vy VYkhoditye?” (Are you getting out?) and they say yes, or they allow you to move in front of them, as far as the crush allows. Occasionally the asker, if nervous about his escape options, will ask if those in front of you will get out too, and you can ask them to reassure him, or reply: “Yes, but they don’t know it yet.”

 Anyway, a woman’s voice somewhere behind me asks if I am getting out, and, despite being crammed up against the glass, I grunt confirmation. We pull into the station and then, for some reason, or more likely for no reason, the doors don’t open. I feel the crowd behind me pushing as though their ire would trigger the electric door mechanism, but there is no movement. And then, whoever is directly behind me loses it and starts rabbit punching me in the kidneys. Stop I shout, and try to writhe away out of range, but there is nowhere to go, and it keeps happening until finally I too enter the world of lost itness and kick backwards with all my might. I am wearing heavy winter boots and I am not at all delicately built, so I make serious contact with whatever demon is assaulting me. At which very moment two things happen: the doors open, and an old woman emits a high pitched scream of unendurable agony.

 I look back as I tumble from the train to see a babushka hitting the floor and behind her a sea of faces staring at me in horrified amazement, it is the work of a second to grasp that explanation and excuses would be beyond my weak Russian, and I am gone, never looking back, waiting for the hand on my shoulder that signifies the pitchforks have been issued and the baying mob established.

But it does not come.