The Window

By Vedant Dhanjal

It’s like fire in the air,

And I am in a great dilemma –

Whether to shut or not

The window of this

Punjabi Bagh bound bus.

If it remains open,

The burning winds will

Engulf my skin, my hair.

And closing it will be like

Suffocating myself to death.

A man, middle aged, grabs

The empty seat beside me,

And unwilling to counter

The fiery bright sun,

Shuts the window fiercely.

I remain unmoved,

Respecting and accepting,

Or rather in cowardliness of

Protesting this action.

Almost instantly, I am

Drenched in unceasing sweat,

And so is, in minutes,

My white handkerchief.

As the man leaves the seat,

A boy, nicely trimmed,

And smarter than me,

Captures the vacant plot.

He wipes a hand

Through his hair,

Stretches his long legs,

And opens the window fiercely.

I again remain unmoved,

Again in respect, acceptance

And fear of protesting

This another liberal action.

And in no time, the loo,

As hot as boiling water,

Punches me hard and harsh

Right into my face.

The sweat disappears,

But the face is burning red.

The boy seems to be in need

Of that fresh warm air,

Just like that man needed

A cover from the storm.

The boy de-boards the bus,

Leaving me in his created mess.

And I, the confused soul,

Who fell prey to those

Clear minded men,

Chooses the middle path –

Shutting the window only half.

By Vedant Dhanjal