See the vendors line-up per the usual norm.
As I cross each would smile,
Blink their eyes, make a bow, agile.
I know the bench, I know the tree,
I know the tracks, and all that I see.
The signal, the hush and then the whistle,
The roar, the rush and the usual jostle.
I board the rail and set on my way,
Envying the green flag that victorious sway.
A creak, a jerk and the sound stops,
Out of the bars, my head pops.
An other platform, a bench and a tree,
Much the same yet I know none I see.
No-one to bow, no-one to smile,
Difficult to know the sincere from the guile.
Then move-on for the next station,
With same remoteness and much the same fashion.
Smile across to who-so-ever I meet,
With this weapon the coldness defeat.
At times indifferent, at times low,
I wonder to myself ‘Is the rail slow?’
The journey seems longer than my imagination,
Won’t give up till I reach my destination,
Meet faces familiar, for me with smile lit,
People to welcome me with their arms split.
(PONDERER ME '01)
- Namrta Batra
