The Delhi Warrior (Train)

The Delhi warrior is a train. The telling is in the poem.

 

 

Packed to the hilt like canned sardines

The smell of aftershave permeates the air

Hand upon hand grip the rail

Whilst eyes in vacant heads stare

 

Bodies bump and jerk and sway

Those on seats lost in sleep

Heads loll forward, feet are crossed

And mobile phones start to bleep.

 

Plastic bottles roll around

One man tries to swat a fly

A monk sits meditating on the floor

And further down, a baby’s cry.

 

Luggage racks are full to brimming

The air as hot as hell within

The open windows bring no breeze

Causing weary heads to spin.

 

One man sleeps whilst he is standing

His body tucked into the corner

Saliva drooling from his mouth

Watched in wonder by a foreigner.

 

The morning paper still unread

Lies tucked between the seats

All are busy doing nothing

As time to the rhythm beats.

 

A tiffin wallah brakes the silence

Shouting out his wares

Whilst a bearded man, robed in white

Snores loudly unaware.

 

Strange, as the train nears the station,

How everyone comes alive

All hustle and bustle, kerfuffle and tussle

And what pleasure from their chatter derive.

 

The warrior too, now takes his rest

His guests brought home safe and sound

His servants now clean him with such a pride

Knowing his style and speed are well renowned.