Thoughts in Kongu Express

carried a bag on my back
wearing an old pair of slippers
i stood waiting for the train
while the cobbler came
looking at my dirty slippers
so gave them away to be polished
while he let me wore his chappals
my feet felt the softness of his feet
for ten ruppees...

the train came howling shining
unlike those which go to Guwahati

of the crisscrossing dirty tracks
i did not care
all i saw was the starving crows
as it was not the season for farmers
to commit suicide

the fields were lifeless
like the farmers
but my yellow mustard flowers
all over spreading
like my dreams of daffodils

i let the wind blew on my face
through the rusty iron windows
let the wind wrote of a new face

the monkey shook the branches of a dead tree
waking the death out of it
like a mother in my valley
shaking the body of her dead son

the railway track labourers squat
holding empty water bottles next to the track
showing off their sad smiles
as if telling me like there is nothing ahead
except emptiness like their bottles

the far away chimney smoked
against the empty sky of blue
like an old man with his naked chest
that coughs out blood for the socialist poets 
to write poems with their propaganda

Bhopal arrived with hot sweet little samosas
but i had bolied chanas with green chilli
Smell of hot biryani carried the train further to Hyderabad
I wanted to take Charminar with me for my lover
but she didn't want it as she had no place for historical monuments
in her heart as it was already filled with stories of "You wont believe me"
So i just smoked a Charminar Cigarette

And Egypt turned so cheap in the Newspaper
every page talked of it
"Mubarak, We have go to take bath"
I saw a man reading tehelka next to my cabin
here again they showed the face of the man
who begged for his life with joined hands
and the caption said "One man that made the nation cries"
but who made him cry?
everyone knows, he who sits upon lotus like god.

trashing away the thought of Gujarat Carnage
i looked out again across the fields
the crisscrossing of the wires and tracks bothered me

'i want to own a sugar cane farm in cuba
not in india
 as lives of farmers last only a season

I have a friend who is pink
His fists are red
University never let him hold a chalk
 to write on black board
Now universities are teaching Pornography
calling it sociology'

with my mind like dirts in a pothole
I arrived here in Bangalore
That night I was just a whore
raped by my own existence
with my own poems and thoughts

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