By Rajababu

The lift is crammed with sweaty people,
People from all the offices,
Some with perfume, some without,
They nervously look at the lift number,
Hoping and praying that the liftman wont stop for the other floors.
They curse when the lift jams on the 10th floor, Overload.
Another 2 minutes later, they are streaming out of the building.
Most of them lunge for the Share a taxi, others
Run towards the 138 Bus stop.
The semblance of the well-formed executive queue,
Disappears with the appearance
Of the Double Decker.


The ladies take out their novels to read,
The men comb their scanty hair and clear their throats.
In a side gully near the station, all troop out,
A newspaper vendor boy thrusts out Mid-days at them
Those who have change or no reading material, buy them.
They then disappear into the sunlit-fiberglass.
The resonance of the Heels and Chinese shoes rises,
Until the Crescendo culminates at the massive CST.
A few stop to grab a Pepsi or a Coke,
There are still 3 minutes for the 5.16 Ambernath.
People wait four compartments ahead of theirs,
They are as nervous as the people,
Within the Approaching local.
The people outside want to get in,
Those in want to get out.
This equilibrium is achieved at 5.18.
A peanut seller hastily sells overpriced nuts.
He jumps out of the moving train,
The 5.16 has finally left at 5.20


-A poem by Rajababu.