TIME! It is the one currency we all chase yet it slips through our fingers like sand. Just the other day I found myself tangled in a conversation about why time feels like it is sprinting away from us.

Monday dawns and before you can blink it is Friday, with the weekend vanishing in a blur.

It is as if time has a personal vendetta, refusing to pause for anyone. This was not a one-off chat – the same lament surfaced over coffee with colleagues in Penang.

We are all caught in this relentless race against the clock. The feeling is universal, time is fleeting and we are always trying to catch up.

Living in Penang, where the action hums, my colleagues and I shuttle back to Kuala Lumpur for the weekend. The journey is a ritual and we each have our preferred chariots, flights for the hurried, buses for the thrifty, cars for the independent or in my case the Electric Train Service (ETS), which blends all three.

The ETS, clocking in at three-and-a-half to four hours, depending on whether it is the express or the stop-heavy regular has become my sanctuary. It is not just transport; it is a pocket of time carved out for me. The train offers a unique space where I can pause and breathe amidst the chaos of daily life.

The ETS is a microcosm of Malaysia, bustling, diverse and endlessly fascinating. The trains are always packed, a testament to their efficiency and affordability. Locals and tourists cram the carriages, each passenger a story in motion.

I cherish these hours where I am free to dive into my thoughts occasionally, surfacing to observe the parade of characters around me. There is quiet joy in people-watching, in catching the quirks and antics that unfold when folks think no one is looking.

I do this while drumming on my keyboard trying to maximise the time. The train becomes a stage for human stories unfolding in real-time.

Take the elderly couples for instance. They are a fixture on the ETS, sitting side by side in stony silence as if they have run out of words after decades together. It is almost comical how they occupy the same space yet seem worlds apart.

You will see them, each staring out their window, lost in private universes. Occasionally, one might nudge the other, trying to make a point, which fizzles with the other party dismissing the action.

It is as if they play a game of who can stay quiet longest. Once I watched an elderly man meticulously peel an orange offering a segment to his wife, who accepted it without a glance, popping it into her mouth while gazing out the window.

The unspoken routine was oddly endearing like silent choreography honed over years. Another time, I saw a couple in a passive-aggressive snack standoff: she offered a biscuit he declined with a wave and she insisted by placing it on his lap, and he placed it back on her tray.

This went on for five minutes neither saying a word, their faces a masterclass in stoic determination. These little dramas, these unspoken negotiations make the ETS a stage for human comedy. Young couples though are rare perhaps, too busy snapping selfies elsewhere to bother with train rides.

What irritates, however, is the obliviousness of some seniors. Earphones absent, they are glued to tiny screens, volume cranked up, broadcasting soap operas or viral videos to the entire carriage.

It is a small nuisance but persistent. And here is a curious observation. In all my trips, I have yet to spot a single soul reading a book. Not one. Have books fallen out of fashion or is the ETS not the place for them? It is a mystery that nags at me. The absence of books feels like a quiet loss in this digital age.

Then there are the tourists. These are no ordinary travellers. They board the ETS armed with knowledge as if they have memorised the train manual. They know the exact platform, the best seats and where to snag an e-hailing taxi upon disembarking.

These seasoned explorers have scoured blogs and forums before setting foot in Malaysia. You will never catch them asking for directions; they move with the confidence of locals if not more.

Contrast that with some locals, myself included, who seem allergic to research. We are the ones fumbling at the station asking fellow passengers how to top up a ticket. It is endearing, this reliance on human connection over Google. It reminds us how differently we navigate the world.

This brings me back to time or rather its absence. On the ETS, time feels different. It is not just hours ticking by, it is space to exist in the now. There is a philosophy I have been mulling over that tomorrow is an illusion.

All we have is this moment, this breath, this fleeting now. It is sobering: How many of us can say with certainty we will wake up tomorrow? The now is all we are guaranteed, yet we spend so much of it chasing what is next.

On the train, I confront this now with less distraction. I jot down ideas, reflect on the week or watch the countryside blur past scenes of rural life and glimpses of lives I will never know.

It is a rare gift of uninterrupted time and it has made me realise how little of it we claim for ourselves.

The ETS, for all its quirks, is a time machine. It does not transport you to the future or past but anchors you in the present. You are not rushing to catch a flight or stuck in traffic, you are here sharing space with strangers, who for a few hours are part of your story.

As we pull into Kuala Lumpur, the spell breaks. The station buzzes and people scatter, taxis honk and the race resumes.

I step off the train, nostalgic for those hours of now. Time may be scarce but on the ETS, I have learned to steal a little back. It is not about slowing the clock, it is about savouring the ride.

So, the next time you are chasing time, consider hopping on a train. Let the world fog outside the window. Watch the strangers around you. For a few hours, just be. Because in the end, it is not about how much time we have, it is about what we do with the now.

Dr Bhavani Krishna Iyer holds a doctorate in English literature. Her professional background encompasses teaching, journalism and public relations. She is currently pursuing a
second master’s degree in counselling.
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