The train doors in India don't talk
like they do in Singapore,
warning you when they are about
to close.

They don't know such courtesies.

Or perhaps it is because they never close.

How can they close
when thick humanity spills out
through every opening?

Like everything else,
the trains too become
a microcosm of the nation,
accepting everything,
carrying everyone
from the ticketless
to the terrorist.

And I will tell you you've seen nothing
if you tell me you have seen India,

without the exhilaration
of hanging by your fingers,
from a train window
while the air
whistled through your hair,

without sipping the frothy
"garam-chai" or munching
on the Lonavla chikki
instead of the safe and
sterile Bisleri water
and Glucose biscuits.

without making easy friends
of strangers who can still squeeze
out half-a-bum space for you
from the heaving seats.

without travelling without a plan,
without destination,
without money,
but constantly
arriving.

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