Kurla Station. Long ago.

I once heard a man
fall
from the roof of a fast train.

From my crowded corner I
could not tell
whether he was pushed
or jumped
or if it became simply impossible
for him to hold on,
his fingers clutching the top
of the window bars.

I was in that train
when the shout went up
and someone stopped long enough
to pull the chain.

From my crowded corner I
could only hear rumours,
gleeful descriptions of what was left of
a co-passenger.
It was 7:30 in the morning.

There was a whole day ahead -
classes to attend, work desks awaited
The train moved on.

It was all in a day's work.


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Written while reading 'Marigolds grow wild on platforms', an anthology of railway poetry. Made me wonder why I didn't know any Indian poetry on the subject. So here's one.