Through the window

No longer have I settled down on my seat

The wailing would ensue.

Some would be urgent, short and rapid

Some long-drawn, slow, as if it knows

It wouldn’t make any difference anymore.

 

In the beginning, I used to get up

And look out through the window.

 The white vehicles with the mirror image

Of AMBULANCE would flash past

Offering me glimpses

Of faces dark with misery.

 

There were then other kinds;

Cars, with lights blazing, horn blaring

Squeezing out, weaving through the oncoming rush.

Three-wheeled autorickshaws offered the best view.

There would invariably be one, head leaning on

To another’s shoulder

Blood-spattered dress, blood-streaked face

Closed eyes – I was fascinated by the expression

Of the others – vacant, sometimes anxious,

Of flickering fear, of untold sorrow and submission to fate.

 

I have seen them too, the ambulances with a wreath or two

Stuck in the front, solemn, slow –

Everything has to come to a pass.

 

In the beginning, I used to sit back

With a heavy heart, and then 

Reminded of my own mortality

Would strain my ears

For that wailing at my doors.

*************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 21.03.2009