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
It
is sweat, and the glimpses of a companion lost.
