In an empty sleeper compartment you sit and you see the soft afternoon light falling silently over buffaloes grazing in the lemon green fields of Jharkhand.
The sky and the white clouds move with you. A huge blue umbrella. A tent. A canopy.
The caravan moves on. You see orange light houses, desolate abandoned old signal posts, the solitary pensive farmer, a woman in a deep blue sari bent over a pot, mud-thatched houses, little children whooping and running for no reason other than for the joy of it, women carrying freshly cut hay stacks over their heads with the sickle in their hands, a man defecating in a most dignified almost stoic manner, workers in a make shift garbage dump processing unit taking a break stretching looking towards the train, a movie theater called Rajeev Picture Palace showing the latest Bollywood hit,
The station approaches, the train slows down and pulls up like a man used to dying.
You pass through, not pass by or pass over.
Love 8 written on the wall of the station, a man holding the hose pipe watering the lawn looks as if he were pissing, young boys listening to the latest sonic nuisance - the mobile radio - and having a good time, the white conical triangle of a temple appears in the far back and disappears in an instant.
The memory retains only that which it deems fit to disclose,be it of dreams or of waking life. (In comes a family - mother, father, and four kids and soon force you to vacate your window seat and retire to the claustrophobic rectitude of the upper berth.)
Abhimanyu Singh's work has previously appeared in kitchenpoet.blogspot.com and pyrtajournal.com.