I wanted for so long to write a post about this picture but was unsure of where to begin. I find that there are certain images, or flash points that you come across as a traveler, that you just can’t shake; some of these are disturbing, some are benign, but their commonality is their resonance that grasps you weeks, months, or years after. And so it was with this one.

The easiest way to get to Bangkok’s Chinatown was to leave the metro train at Hua Lamphong, its central train station whose ornate wooden roofs and stained glass windows place you in another time. Outside by the sticky and dusty platforms, many of its railcars were no different. I remember walking in slow motion, weaving around the vendors squatting on tiny plastic chairs peddling their tropical fruits. I could have spent a lifetime photographing the platform vendors, but what I really wanted was to peak inside the commuter trains. Unlike the futuristic metro train and its spotless sleek capsules that zoomed over the Chao Phraya River and Grand Palace, like some better-colored and more exotic Tomorrowland, these trains, headed to the smaller villages in the countryside, were different. Their interiors were a sighing teakwood with hard benches for seats. They were painted in deep burgundies and golds, with yellowed dusty linens their curtains, hanging heavy in the afternoon’s humidity. Through the open windows of the train, I could see tired women and playful toddlers and monks in orange robes and day laborers clamoring for seats, all shouting, hoping to be heard over the heavy whistle of departure.

He sat staring out the window as I craned my neck to look in from the platform. It was now crowded with queuing passengers, their plastic bags bursting at the seams with food and clothes. Our eyes locked on each other and despite my efforts, I could not look away. I remember my ears burning, a wave of embarrassment rushing through me, like I was a voyeur who had no business in the train station, forcing myself onto an existence that was not mine. I froze, unable to move.

Until he smiled.

A thousand bricks lifted off me, the sheepishness replaced with at least a spark of boldness. I lifted my camera towards him, pointing my finger at it.

He nodded slowly, before smoothing down his shirt, running his hands through hair, and leaning towards the window. My hands were shaking and the sweat trickled down my temples as I took the shot. I don’t know why I was so nervous.

His gaze penetrated me even after I put the camera down. He sat there, smiling at me, disarming me, breaking eye contact only when the train finally pulled away. In what could have only been a few moments, I am sure this young man knew everything about me.

I will never see him again, nor learn his name, nor understand his story.  Yet the image of his gentle smile and patience stay with me always.