The Railway Station

By Anustup Sengupta

As you skip the dogs, idling

On the stairs of the station,

You will find people lining,

Buying ‘tokens of permission’.

A long queue of passengers:

Family, friends, acquaintances, strangers.

Like a thumb pressing a leak,

“Why isn’t the line moving? How bleak !”

The announcement catches attention,

A voice familiar to everyone,

Carrying on the age old Railways norm.

There, sits an old man with guavas,

“Fresh from Baruipur, twenty fetches four”.

“Cucumbers, peeled and sliced”,

“Raw mangoes, tangy and spiced”.

Small shops line the ramparts,

Newspapers and magazines,

travel-essentials, food carts.

The display and the aroma is so tempting,

That you can never refrain from attempting.

“From breakfast to dinner, everything we serve.

In this station no one starves.”

Even if you skip the eateries,

You can always try out the lotteries.

Here arrives the train,

The passengers storm in:

An army of ants pouncing upon a sugary grain.

A brawl sneaks in.

Here you would never find a porter performing a deal.

Slavery has been emancipated long ago,

At least it should appear so.

Something is missing here you might feel.

The Express trains whoosh past here,

The station is small, the tracks are clear,

When they pass, we stare...

Contd....

Amidst all these, there is a man, seemingly unaware.

Nonchalantly performing his duties.

Approached and asked, “Is this fair?”

“This is my station, am the Master,

Your journey be smooth and faster.

Now tell me, do you care?

Is it fair....or... unfair?”

By Anustup Sengupta