Those potholed roads lie flat in apathy,
As she lumbers across carrying the load,
Of humanity,
Revving up with a sneeze,
A delighted exhaust blast,
She siddles up to a busstop.
Tired faces at windows,
Nose on the bar,
watching the battle to enter,
The right to a Square Foot of Steel,
As other feet fight ,
umbrellas as weapons,
Dripping the pollution of the skies.
Some polite moves,
Some leching eyes,
Body contracting to one side,
She clutches her purse,
and the child holding on to schoolbooks,
Wet behind the ears,
Shoes stepping on her sandaled feet,
The toe ring hurts.
And the brown uniform,
taps his punch on the seat rod,
Calls out , and beckons....
"Sir, cant you see,
This is a ladies seat,
Ma'am, come forward..."
And she puts the child ahead,
squeezes against briefcases,
and limbs
Clutching her purse
Getting ahead.
A sudden pothole,
A surprise jerk,
They fall backwards,
They've lost their place,
but fall unhurt,
tumbling over a base,
Cushioned by the humanity of Mumbai,
Packing the monsoon buses.
They dust themselves, tucking in dishevelled thoughts,
Collect their bags
and Thoughts,
Clutching the rods once again
Ruffling the hair of a child,
Who stands again with his mother,
Facing another schoolday,
Another bus,
Another crowd,
Another rain....
The same life...........
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