All the fellow travellers have gone.
We are alone for the rest of the journey.

A day or night, some reach their destination
concluding the game
wrapping up the story midway
cutting short jokes halfway
famine pulp war
Ravi Shanker sitar…
continue the discussions.
The moment speed slows down
they get off snuffing out cigarettes.

Now, some are in the office
at home on leave
back in jail after parole.
For some others
fun rest pilgrimage
the inevitable death
hallucination or marriage.

But, for us to reach home
countless elusive languages
ill-fitting costumes styles
untamed seasons natures.
Meanwhile, many more will come
limbs broken
the blind leading the blind
marked off as martyrs
those who never speak or know the other
even after travelling together for days
those who have got into wrong trains destinations

or forgotten their friends
dared to speed;
screams scattering over rubble in the dark.

Winding different ways and names
we reach again the same desolation
the same rails.

Come home one day
bathe in the house pond that
like grandma’s sayings remains clear and pure
even after generations have washed their dirty linen
swam and splashed
and look back at the path along which
daydreams have walked away.

We won’t even recognise ourselves
the country bumpkins scared to cross busy streets
scarecrows in front of skyscrapers
office chairs tables that call by name
the indelible red ink stains
wasted youth sharpness
that was all eyes and ears for the other
and for the aftermath.

Everything is contained in a smile
that fails to appear
hatred boredom anger
searing humiliation
backbreaking falls.

It’s night again.
No wayside inns nearby
and who is at the door
who knows?