( This was written on my way back to Bangalore. I was getting back after a month long internship as a Grassroutes Fellow, in an NGO called Vayali)
When a train whizzes by all I can see is a blur. A blur that
contains in it lives, flesh and thoughts, stories, all a line, all in a tumbling motion.
Much like the lives we live and the faces we see or at times see through.
A month long of this blur and suddenly a halt, for suddenly you know your journey has ended. A paradox for I am being rocked by the rhythm of the rails for a destination. It feels queer to be able to have received so much and selfishly kept it all by myself, in my heart. A bit embarrassed to be not measuring up to certain hearts, to give as much or more than what they have given. Humbled and blessed for I was in the company of boys, nay men, with whom I had spent the whole night and never felt insecure or doubtful. And here I am, turned into auto-insomniac for an asshole tried groping me and still had the puck to ask “Mole, e seatu free aano?”
A month long of this blur and suddenly a halt, for suddenly you know your journey has ended. A paradox for I am being rocked by the rhythm of the rails for a destination. It feels queer to be able to have received so much and selfishly kept it all by myself, in my heart. A bit embarrassed to be not measuring up to certain hearts, to give as much or more than what they have given. Humbled and blessed for I was in the company of boys, nay men, with whom I had spent the whole night and never felt insecure or doubtful. And here I am, turned into auto-insomniac for an asshole tried groping me and still had the puck to ask “Mole, e seatu free aano?”
The train is packed; there is this mid forties man sleeping
on the floor with nothing more than his precious suitcase tucked underneath his
head, a couple (newly married, much in love or a one-night stand) sharing the
same berth cooing away to glory (the mid forties still got no seat) and random
wailing baby and a nagging voice, saccade, fixed stars, silhouettes of
civilization and barrenness and the rhythm of the rail continues to haunt. Each
rhythm capsule in itself a show; light and shadow, darkness and white.
Comments