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
The picturesque narrative presents a live movie relating to the small railway stations. Both human and animals are associated with the lifeline of the station. The station represents the routine activities, a demeanor of traditional busy station. The spirit of the poem reminds us a real and vivid presence of the ongoing life in a station. The station is symbolic also where we, the moving ants engage ourselves busy with trifling personal interest in the short period of our stay in this small planet of large universe. The master is He who controls all activities in this earth, a small busy station. This beautiful poem reminds us –
‘Suitcases, tears and hopeful grins,
Farewells said and new begins.”
Vibrant images of a station flick and feel as if I am standing in a station.
Very much relatable.. nice..
The poem reminds me of "The Bazaars of Hyderabad" by Sarojini Naidu. This poem too is in the same line but the end has a remarkable turn which swayed my perception of the poem. The turn, I must say is as much like a ball gets on the pitch of Chepauk but highly unwelcoming if you are driving something like a train! Mind boggling. Relished it very much.