A foxtail grass.

The first time I noticed him he was already taller than the planks of wood supporting the rails. There wasn’t a breath of wind that day, and between the sleepers the grass stood tall and straight – chest out, stomach in – like the lead gymnast from our school years, a boy who moved with such precision that he was both admired and envied. Of course the foxtail grass had been there long before I’d paid him any attention. But though I waited for the train here at the South Shanghai Railway Station every day after work, I’d never seen him before. Perhaps the rail ties marked a sort of threshold, like the height chart at the front of the bus. Once a child grew taller than 1.20 meters, they had to purchase a ticket. The child existed before they reached that height, but in the bus ticket headcount they could be ignored.

Once the foxtail grass had made his impression on me, I began to notice other things too. A layer of moss covered both sides of the railroad tracks – some patches were dark, others light, others barely visible, as if a secret pattern had been woven into them. It was not a peaceful world under the sleepers. Several grass-like plants snaked out of the ground, reaching for the bolts on top of the ties. Occasionally a platoon of ants made an appearance, marching across the moss. The gaps between the railway sleepers were like caves to them, while the bumpy gravel below was a mountain road. By making the crossing, the ants could visit their relatives on the other side.

As it turned out, he was not the only foxtail grass. More shot up, stubbornly, at different points along the platform. There were more on the side where the passengers stood. Some grew well beyond the stumps of the sleepers and approached the height of the platform. Even though they were close enough to brush my shoes, I hadn’t noticed them until now.

After that first encounter, I began to enjoy waiting for the train after work. Each day the foxtail grass, like an excited adolescent, would exclaim, ‘Look! I’ve grown again!’ The various components of the track all served as markings to measure his increased height.

One day, the foxtail grass – the very first one, the one that had lured me into his world – swayed past a dangerous mark. I worried about his fate. Clutching my purse, I glanced at the countdown on the screen – there was only a minute left until the train arrived. The foxtail grass was still clinging to the track, dozing greedily. The far end of the track began to glow, as if there were tiny lamps hanging from either side, lighting up, one after another. Wake up, I murmured, or you will be chopped down. The foxtail grass did not budge, and the people around me started to rub their palms together, preparing themselves to compete for a good spot. This was the terminal station. An empty train arrived. Whoever got on first would enjoy a comfortable ride for some time.

All at once I had a vision of the train as an endless line of pregnant women, all of them in active labor. As the train pulled in, the women were thrust onto the operating table, emitting long, painful screams. The foxtail grass was gone. The women were cut open and gutted. People shoved their way in, reaching for flesh. Nobody seemed to care about the babies in their bellies.

‘You getting on or what? Move out of the way!’ I was pushed aside. A cacophony of footsteps – like thunder, like drumbeats, like pile-driving. The lights on the train doors started to flicker at the same pace, accompanied by an urgent ‘beep beep beep’, as if something had gone wrong in surgery. Then, before I could understand what was happening, the open bellies closed up, like it had all been a bizarre performance. With another long, painful roar, the women were pushed to the next operating table. In their roar, I somehow sensed a note of exhilaration.

Once the last woman had been sent away, the foxtail grass sprang back up. How flexible – he had bent down to one side beneath the moving train. He seemed to recognize me, his witness, and showed off his agility by twisting his body. I cracked a smile. Then, seeing the uniformed staff patrolling the platform, I resumed my flat expression and stepped back.

‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ I said, not sure why I felt the need to explain.

The man walked on without a pause. Six minutes and fifty-eight seconds until the next train. Besides me and the metro staff, the only other person there was a man in his forties. Perhaps he was actually waiting for someone. I sat down next to him, leaving an empty seat between us.

‘You noticed the plant too?’ he asked, out of the blue.

‘What plant?’ As if caught playing a prank by a parent, my default reaction was to deny everything.

He leaned his head closer. ‘The plant that looks like a foxtail grass.’

‘Isn’t that a foxtail grass?’ As soon as I’d said this, I knew I was exposed.

The man’s eyes looked very small behind his thick glasses. He was balding, with a few tufts of hair holding up the facade. I had a sense that he was well educated, cultured and understanding, so I didn’t feel bad about my earlier denial.

He said the plant was a tropical species, originally found in Sumatra, but in recent years it had also been spotted in non-tropical regions around the world. He mentioned the scientific name of the plant, but I forgot it as soon as he’d said it. I still only call the plant ‘the foxtail grass’.

‘It’s difficult to remember,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It’s okay if you don’t. Back in college, we’d repeat the scientific names like the names of our relatives, and once we’d memorized them they did feel like our relatives!’

I smiled back.

‘I can tell you just started working,’ he continued. ‘You haven’t been worn down by life –’

The corners of his mouth drooped, and he waved his hand. He told me about the plant’s personality. It felt like he was talking about a close friend: ‘He’s very good at adapting to changes,’ the man explained. ‘That’s why he can bend over completely with such short notice. In the tropics he uses this posture to prey on flies and mosquitoes, stretching out like a lizard’s tongue. That is his instinct.’

I liked the foxtail grass even more now that I knew he hunted flies and mosquitoes.

‘We used to keep the plants in our dorm rooms, and thanks to them we were free from mosquitoes all summer long.’

We only got to exchange a few more sentences before people started to fill the benches. Most passengers stood by the edge of the platform, ready to pounce. Through the gaps between their legs, I could still see the foxtail grass.