- poetry
I boarded the seven-twenty-five local.
You didn’t have to be one to ride it,
But whoever rode it, was one.
It was the difficult city’s own great carnival
Of acceptance.
I used to think we were friends ─
When I’d reach early, I’d wait.
And when I wouldn’t,
I’d hope to find a dirt-smeared letter
Bearing my name, sealed with a metallic kiss.
How fellows part. How poets part.
I would, in fact, find a letter.
An announcement of indifference ─
‘The next local is at seven-forty-two.'
From where I sat on the train,
I could see several files of men,
Some seated comfortably,
Some clawing their way into the coach
Grabbing whatever little they could ─
Rails. Window panes. Shoulders.
Their journey perhaps alluded to
How they made a home of the city.
I see their bobbing heads held to their bodies
By the finer threads of duty.
Their hair greying out of servility,
Their eyes sunken by the pull of insomnia,
And their neck and shoulders, sore,
Labouring away their youth under the backpacks of yore.
Some of these men have sat beside each other
Through pain and poverty, misery and melancholy,
Birth and mirth, and death and decay.
Yet, all they knew of the other,
Was a little more than their occupation,
And a little less than their name.
By the time the year neared its end,
A few dozen new faces had emerged in those rows.
Men who wore their shirts with collar buttons fastened.
‘The shirt isn’t worth your breath.’ ─
The cautionary voices had retired
When the fresh blood swept in.
Even as these faces changed,
After that one long year, I would often swear ─
‘I’ve been on this train before!’
A familiar love note scribbled under the window,
The broken switchboard, broken exactly the same,
That one oddly coloured seat amidst
An otherwise uniform livery.
Turns out, there are fewer trains
Than days in a year. Even fewer than
Days in my life. I’m afraid,
I don’t have enough journeys to go on.
Bus Station, 2008 Sunil Laal, Indian, Acrylic on canvas, H. 90 cm, W. 90 cm; Frame: H. 104cm, W. 103cm, MAC.01533
Through the lens of the daily commute, I explore the symphony that is life in motion — individuals navigating the world and the self. The train becomes a metaphor for time and space. The endlessly fleeting roll of time and its composing interstices, the liminal space we all occupy — caught between destinations, navigating change, but often locked in repetitive cycles. It reflects not only the physical act of travelling but the deeper transitions within ourselves as we move through life, where the motion of the train mirrors the impermanence and stillness that coexists in urban existence.
The poem captures both the relentless pace of the city and the quiet, introspective moments that occur in transit, emphasizing how, in the crowded anonymity of Mumbai’s trains, we are constantly moving yet strangely disconnected from the world around us and, sometimes, even from ourselves.
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