A version of this poem first appeared in Trainsorm-An Anthology of Alternative Train Poetry
The envelope flitted
between your fingers,
before you
tore open the invitation.
Not unbidden, nor unexpected,
yet at once an exile,
self-imposed.
An escape
(freedom seemed so selfish then)
from Father’s disciplining,
Mother’s drudgery,
the dampness of never
having enough.
For three nights,
the train, Typhoon Express,
ruled by mosquitoes
and with snails for wheels
chugged along.
You crouched on the
frozen bunk, the warmth
of Mother’s shoulder
and hearth fading
into smoky ether.
At the university,
squirrels and bou-kotha-kow tweets
would share your
open-air classrooms.
Friends’ banter,
a professor’s insults
and another’s excessive kindness
kept you in balance.
On stormy afternoons,
you foraged for green mangoes,
mirth, berries and
songs.
Half a century later,
friends flew away,
and all but the
benevolent professor
crossed over to
the other shore.
Here you are,
looking out of a train window–
paddy soaking in muddy water
and goats tethered to mud houses,
roots–slippery, shifting–
–on your way to exchange
the tears you left behind
for age-old, old-age laughs
with the kind professor.
Bhaswati Ghosh 