April 01, 2004
Then onto a random train we transfer, early
off the Indore-Mizamuddin, to some other train
we transfer; smelling the dawn-light already ripe
with ropes of thick black oiled hair, braided and studded
with marigold and jasmine, fragrant in the depth
of summer sunlight: their hair, the cows, spice
and piss, the Vespa exhaust, the market calls,
and not to mention, one's own humbling sweat.
All this occurs in the transfer: an overwhelming
stinking obtusity after the morning-silence of a train,
slow to wake, with the gentle sway
of brown feet off the ends of bunks.
But soon, we transfer to some other train,
and it is quiet again, just breathing, the warm
light from the windows dabbing at our half-shut eyes,
that light wind of journey, and in this reverie I hear her
soft voice like the cut of a knife, the singing woman
on some random train, after Indore-Mizimuddin,
her song is pregnant and hopeless, and it wakes me ubruptly
the sound of clay tea-cups shattering on clay ground
some distance back from the moving train.
Posted by delire at April 1, 2004 11:56 PM