Halo of light emerging from the dark
Rising like an unkept queen
Whistling sound from the far
The mist of rising steam
Break the silence of the platform
Like the sight of censored skin
Lurking to reveal
Shamelessly in a crowded bazaar
Trail of its existence
For the eyes lustful and mean.
An arrival so grand
only a mark of its impending end.
An old broken record awaits
Playing from the TT’s office.
Nameplate of the city
A legacy of its history
That it no longer remembers.
A narrow passage blurring in indefinite darkness,
Old clocks hanging by
For the fateful declaration of every arrival.
Throbbing sound of the tracks
Faster than the heartbeat
The odor of the train, piss, and old rotten iron seats
Make the scent of waiting
Profound and bleak.
Leftovers of travelers gone by
Baggage of things left behind
Shared by coolies and their sahebs alike
When they stand on the tracks
That disappear in the dark.
A trail of loss
With each departure
Reveals a veil of darkness
When the trains can no longer be seen
To the Godots on the platforms
Eager and restless to leave.
But static is the clocks, old iron seats, and the long unending tracks
Stoic and Unapologetic
Much like the soul waiting
Unmoved by the pains of the body
Waiting for it to depart.
Undeterred by the youth of its arrival
And its definite exit
railway stations are the same
Old or new
Past or present
Like the defiant soul
They all feel the same.
