The Bombay locals remind me of myself, albeit younger
A little younger in experience, immature in worldly ways.
I remember timidly asking a bespeckled man how far CST was
And if I’d have to change the train at Dadar.
So many helpful voices, no one seemed to care
But everyone seems kind, everyone selfish in their own right.
Old men and concerned women ask where you’re from
“What is your business here? Where are you headed?”
“I’m here to meet someone, new here.”
Not entirely new, always been passing through.
Does everyone feel alive when they get down at Victoria Terminus?
I was distraught when SRK blew up Victoria Terminus as a superhero.
I’m reminded of a Parsi couple sitting in the local
They seemed satisfied; I wonder what caused it.
This feeling of contentment, it spread through them to me
It’s infectious, every emotion felt in the local.
Because in the local everything spreads, like adrenalin in tired veins
And it hits you harder; it hits you sharper than any other shot.
“If you want to get down at Bandra then come closer to the exit.”
Wise words of advice from a helpful traveler, I got down safe.
But it wasn’t Bandra or Thane or Churchgate or anywhere else
It was always CST in Mumbai, VT if you feel more colonial than me.
Faint memories of finding my companion in alluring Colaba
I remember her dropping me back to CST, I did hug her goodbye.
Goodbye, farewell, it’s done and is near-forgotten
Though every trip to the Maximum City does refresh memories.
And every ride in the Mumbai Local makes me nostalgic
Of events that have transpired, that never may be.
The Mumbai Local is young love for me