Women in Punjabi Dress
I see them from inside the moving metro
on the terrace of a yellowing building.
For the time it takes to pass them by
they look like statues holding poses - hands
on hips or head or face or waist.
One day the metro comes to a sudden rest.
They close in with cautious curiosity
as if to a dormant snake. If they had one,
they’d poke the train with a stick
to see if it’s alive enough to slither away.
Airport to Howrah Station
While the cabbie was tricking me
into taking a longer route, ghosts
of the newly butchered day slapped
my dozing self with a cool breeze.
At every turn they screamed Voila!
snatching the sheet of fog away
to reveal the exhibits napping
in the warmth of yellow fuzzy light.
Park Circus, Eden Gardens, Howrah Bridge
soon will be kicked out of sleep,
their faces dabbed with sunlight
will rise and shine in their made-up grace.
The School-Bus Driver
He looked like Freddie Flintstone with glasses.
Wore the same sky-blue shirt and steel-grey pants
and smiled only when asking for payment.
He quoted Kabir and made no fuss
despite the presence of children about
announcing the imminent arrival of death.
Anger eluded him. Except for once
when one of us had climbed to the roof of the bus.
He grabbed the perpetrator by his ears
and threatened to shove him back to the hole
his mortal self had entered this world of maya from.
The Halwai’s Son
Early one morning I saw him standing
inside a huge aluminium pot
kept under an ancient tap - water
sporadically running from it.
With his feet he was washing
the potatoes - the essential element
of samosas that account for
ninety percent of his daily sales.
Caught unawares he gave me a smile -
unapologetic, and seemed to be saying
the road to indulgence takes
on my heels a delicious turn.
Rahul Singh is a data scientist and lives in Bengaluru. He runs a weekly newsletter called ‘Mehfil.’ His work has been published in Usawa Literary Review, The Hooghly Review, The Pine Cone Review, and Indian Review.