I have been writing railway hoardings for
the past thirty three years.
I write them in paints of red, gold and green.
I write them neat.
In words of when the train shall be seen,
with no conformation but my intuition of the years experiences.
The hoardings that stand mighty,
one along the track between Bikaner and Jaisalmer.
The train does pass by, every seventy two hours.
Rarely, like times when we steam beans. Nothing exotic, only rajma.
Yes, but when It comes,
the earth shakes and the tremors are felt inside the place I live in.
Whatever furniture we have trembles over its own edge to pause a falling spree.
Much like the dominoes, though not arranged in that a fashion.
And the noise is ear-piercing.
Then it takes us a good half hour to rearrange the place we live in-I would want to call it home.
Also, it does not pose as a problem, not a major one,
every once a three days and then gone.
Gone like it would never return.
Gone like there is no U-turn.
Gone like there is not another turn.
But it does return.
I crave its returning.
And I do the waiting.
With the train come my needs.
Those three hundred seventy five rupees.