On the door I stood, as my train slowed down,
To stop at a small station, the name I don’t remember now,
The train stopped, along with the breeze on my face,
I glanced at the tongue-tied platform, the silent shops and the mum benches,
On one of which she sat, right in front of me.
She was whiter than the white she wore,
And the darkness in my heart could never match the colour in her eyes,
A chilly morning it was and pink rose petals blossomed on her cheeks,
This gave some radiance to her pink dupatta, her bisque charm and her aqua grace,
I stood there motionless, more silent than a lonely white cloud in the sky.
Her gaze moved up and our eyes met,
This staggered my mind with the Tagore’s lines,
“And is this true, my ever loving friend,
That the lightening flash of the light in my eyes,
Makes the cloud in your heart explode and blaze, is this true?”
It was true, I smiled at myself but it was visible in the outer world,
She did not respond.
Of course, she did not hear these lines in my mind,
Or maybe she did.
She began arranging her stuff, getting ready to board my train,
A large bag, a small bag, and a bottle of water.
She picked up the three of them,
And then the wooden crutch,
hidden behind the bench, away from my sight,
As she got up, I saw that lower part of her left leg,
Where there was hollowness in place of flesh or nerves or bones,
My nerves froze, and the same hollowness filled my mind.
She looked up at me again,
But this time,