Poet;
A Little Less Valued
I took a local train back home at 6pm from Pune railway station. Witnessing the unusual mutiny resolved by unexpected monsoon, an enthusiastic me began longhanding odes to the weather's audacity, in a notebook I always carry. Rains in March washed away the cracks made by the summer scorch. Excess water running down the streets sanitized every corner of the cluttered road, and that dripping from the rooftops shone in turquoise blue, akin the colour of the skies. The shrewd raindrops befriended winds to slant their way in the train through every possible opening. The seats were soon booked by fresh water, which settled on them and traveled along. Some cool water suddenly hit my face and soaked my teenage beard, I smiled of utter relaxation. Winds not only rejoiced, but also they did yodel themselves in transparent sublimity!
As the train braked down in least friction at the very next station, Shivaji Nagar, popularly known as 'populated destination', the oxygen that the air in the coach held, was in no time replaced by suffocated vacuum. An-eager-to-get-home pack of around forty people barged in through an entrance, which was meant to welcome in two at a time. Sweat! Clumsiness! Congestion! Scavenging and scouring eyes for a seat, rants for some space began within the coach. A drunkard got in and added to the mediocre air inside, by the foulest intoxicated odour he exhaled. Soon, the reek of unfiltered alcohol exalted itself above all others in the category and rendered the breathable air squeamish!
I observed the crowd. The people belonged to that unnoticed group of 9-5 working clan, for whom grabbing a seat in the train back home would mean more than the purity of weather outside. Three men sitting opposite me could notice the calm that persisted on my face, as I penned of weather's greatness. “What scribbling work would give a man peace?” one of them frisked a taunt at me. I smiled, “Poetry and monsoon have always expected artists to make their rendezvous possible.”
I took a local train back home at 6pm from Pune railway station. Witnessing the unusual mutiny resolved by unexpected monsoon, an enthusiastic me began longhanding odes to the weather's audacity, in a notebook I always carry. Rains in March washed away the cracks made by the summer scorch. Excess water running down the streets sanitized every corner of the cluttered road, and that dripping from the rooftops shone in turquoise blue, akin the colour of the skies. The shrewd raindrops befriended winds to slant their way in the train through every possible opening. The seats were soon booked by fresh water, which settled on them and traveled along. Some cool water suddenly hit my face and soaked my teenage beard, I smiled of utter relaxation. Winds not only rejoiced, but also they did yodel themselves in transparent sublimity!
As the train braked down in least friction at the very next station, Shivaji Nagar, popularly known as 'populated destination', the oxygen that the air in the coach held, was in no time replaced by suffocated vacuum. An-eager-to-get-home pack of around forty people barged in through an entrance, which was meant to welcome in two at a time. Sweat! Clumsiness! Congestion! Scavenging and scouring eyes for a seat, rants for some space began within the coach. A drunkard got in and added to the mediocre air inside, by the foulest intoxicated odour he exhaled. Soon, the reek of unfiltered alcohol exalted itself above all others in the category and rendered the breathable air squeamish!
I observed the crowd. The people belonged to that unnoticed group of 9-5 working clan, for whom grabbing a seat in the train back home would mean more than the purity of weather outside. Three men sitting opposite me could notice the calm that persisted on my face, as I penned of weather's greatness. “What scribbling work would give a man peace?” one of them frisked a taunt at me. I smiled, “Poetry and monsoon have always expected artists to make their rendezvous possible.”
“Poetry!”
He sneered. “May I have a look?”
I confidently handed over my script to him and awaited a smile on his face after he finished reading it. My expectation was scorned as the employee sneezed out thick influenza and by the grace of my bad fortune, it landed on my script. “Err...ahh, I am sorry, boy. Change in the climate you know. Here, your script.”
I threw it on the railway track, as the train departed from another station, leaving behind the piece of my creation fallen on the track. Rain hit it in millimeters and consequently in centimeters, decaying the crisp of the paper....The paper I had used to praise the same rain, the same showers more dramatically...poetically.
Sagher
I confidently handed over my script to him and awaited a smile on his face after he finished reading it. My expectation was scorned as the employee sneezed out thick influenza and by the grace of my bad fortune, it landed on my script. “Err...ahh, I am sorry, boy. Change in the climate you know. Here, your script.”
I threw it on the railway track, as the train departed from another station, leaving behind the piece of my creation fallen on the track. Rain hit it in millimeters and consequently in centimeters, decaying the crisp of the paper....The paper I had used to praise the same rain, the same showers more dramatically...poetically.
Sagher
