The Way

he boarded at noon,
frail in his mud patterned robes,
casting no shadow
on the platform that had forgotten its name;

we let the silence drip into the space between us,
the empty sound, a misshapen cup between strangers,
collecting smells and voices and half-seen landscapes,
that the senses discard like oversized clothes,

as wheels and tracks count the seconds,
the dusty breath of the summer fields
streams hot against our bodies, bent politely away,
trapped in a time frame thrust through a restless carriage window;

I woke up to the shrieking hush of a motionless train,
the hard berth pushing my bones into an alien light,
he was staring into the dew threaded morning,
his lips moving in an unbroken prayer

something (or someone) is dead on the tracks,
four hours we’ve been standing here, a woman said,
I saw his dark ringed eyes floating like unslept oil
over the trembling azure of his face,

I threw off the blanket of sin and despair
that had slumbered with me all night,
journeys cannot be between two points,
his stillness asked, what do you call arriving?

I leapt down from my lofty height
my naked feet seeking the floor beside his,
I let a ripple break in our brimming cup,
Sir, can I bring you some tea?

Linked to Dverse Poets where the prompt is “Travel” – Because there’s nothing quite like travelling in a second class train compartment across India…an entire lifetime of experiences crammed into a few hours!