My city always travels-Those who flee today come back tomorrowRobbing starlight from the eyelids of the dead,pickling them in spicy, salty ambitions.Don’t be surprised when you seethe diamond-merchant’s wife sellingseaweeds to jobless millworkers.Concealed in the cracks of the railway tracks,Paradise is here –Stray dogs and gods litter platform withFragrant sins of their bodies.This is almost a surreal siege-No one is happy or sad here.When the daylight blurs the edge of seaIron wheels cry in chorus –like aging water buffaloes in pairs,passengers sit cramped between grief and relief.Slowly, they meltinto the rhythms of unknown destinations.Would you believe,thatstations mirror themselves?Silent prophecies of random riots,and Mercy Killers-wet in the monsoon rains-pounce on the office goers urinating under the footbridges ofParel, Bandra, Kalyan stations.A country of broken tiffin-boxes we are-If you come from my villagefor lunch at my city homelet me know beforehand;we shall meet at Curry Road station,both you and I…
Photo by Shripad Tak on Unsplash