Travel notes (and half a dozen stars)
A loud shrieking horn and we're off,
sitting by the window, watching the tracks change,
taking us afar, to another world, another land,
The familiar, somewhat rottenly,
somewhat rancid smell greets us inmates,
as we progress the smell is more bearable
as the outside dancing winds come
charging into our fast cabins,
while the smell diffuses into a faint linger.
Cigarette buds and muddy water,
adorn the passageway of the cabins,
an occasional shout emerges at every passing dam,
A group of hijdas come singing songs,
and asking for contributions,
you don't want to invite their wrath,
so you just shut up and pay them.
they move on as they came, while
you can still hear the patronising clap,
an occasional blabber, another song.
Ever so often the quaint men appear,
they bring goodies to your cabin by way
of chai, coffee and chennas.
pitching them with corny toned lines, all their own.
Look under your seat, and
you find a man sweeping all the dust,
dirt, and anything else that he may find,
a quick sweep with the shrivelled broom,
as he puts out his hand towards you,
You don't have to ask if you told him to sweep,
he just did and he wanted spare change for it.
All this while you travel through tunnels
and valleys and plains and fields,
watching the colour of the soil change as you
move from one state to another, the weather change,
from hot to cold to rainy to dry and humid,
Watching the fields as you pass by,
the striking yellow flowers and the occasional
urchins waving at you with a colourful glee,
but don't stick your head out to draw in
the beautiful hurrying wind that blows through out,
*splat* and a burst of water thrown from another
cabin lands on you, carried by the same wind
which you wanted to draw in.
When you reach your destination, and proceed
to get off, a faint sense of that rancid smell
still lingers all around you.
Passengers rush in and out.
The quaint cabin men are replaced
by the local folk who are dishing out their
quaint lines and selling the now ubiquitous chai.
a sense of dizzy tiredness sweeps across you,
as if everything around you was still in motion,
but you can't keep up with that,
your long train journey is over.
sitting by the window, watching the tracks change,
taking us afar, to another world, another land,
The familiar, somewhat rottenly,
somewhat rancid smell greets us inmates,
as we progress the smell is more bearable
as the outside dancing winds come
charging into our fast cabins,
while the smell diffuses into a faint linger.
Cigarette buds and muddy water,
adorn the passageway of the cabins,
an occasional shout emerges at every passing dam,
A group of hijdas come singing songs,
and asking for contributions,
you don't want to invite their wrath,
so you just shut up and pay them.
they move on as they came, while
you can still hear the patronising clap,
an occasional blabber, another song.
Ever so often the quaint men appear,
they bring goodies to your cabin by way
of chai, coffee and chennas.
pitching them with corny toned lines, all their own.
Look under your seat, and
you find a man sweeping all the dust,
dirt, and anything else that he may find,
a quick sweep with the shrivelled broom,
as he puts out his hand towards you,
You don't have to ask if you told him to sweep,
he just did and he wanted spare change for it.
All this while you travel through tunnels
and valleys and plains and fields,
watching the colour of the soil change as you
move from one state to another, the weather change,
from hot to cold to rainy to dry and humid,
Watching the fields as you pass by,
the striking yellow flowers and the occasional
urchins waving at you with a colourful glee,
but don't stick your head out to draw in
the beautiful hurrying wind that blows through out,
*splat* and a burst of water thrown from another
cabin lands on you, carried by the same wind
which you wanted to draw in.
When you reach your destination, and proceed
to get off, a faint sense of that rancid smell
still lingers all around you.
Passengers rush in and out.
The quaint cabin men are replaced
by the local folk who are dishing out their
quaint lines and selling the now ubiquitous chai.
a sense of dizzy tiredness sweeps across you,
as if everything around you was still in motion,
but you can't keep up with that,
your long train journey is over.
This entry was posted
on Monday, October 30, 2006 at 01:54.
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