On Trains

Leave a comment

11/09/2015 by Siddiqui Fayesal

The train zoomed past trees
And buildings and electric

The trees waved away the
Weary travelers; at times with
Inching shadows and at times
With a splatter of water.

It shook itself dry and
Drenched us who
Stood at the doors
Of the iron cabin.

The buildings wore a
A sour countenance as its
Blurry and brown
Façade threw itself out
Of harm’s way to
Let the machine pass.

Their walls were lettered
With adverts
And faces, sometimes legible
Sometimes not; but always
Colourful and always with
A story to tell.

The electric poles saluted
As the train whizzed past it
Doubling up and traveling
Equal to its length.

We measured distances
In school with such poles
For math class.
Although, we did on paper
And only for exams.

Never for real.

But this, here, was a real
Feast. My eyes slipped in one
Image in its center and soon
Caught on to another.

A human eye could only see
That much beauty in a space of
A train-second.

A train-second is very unlike
A normal second.
It is only a moment,
Unmeasurable and unquantifiable,
For which the vast
Beauty of the never ending
Indian landscape is
Caught in the very centre
Of the eye.

It then has to be let go.
It copies itself on the
Inside of your eyelids,
Ready to be beckoned
At will.

It has to be let gone because
There is another prettier,
More abstract form of beauty
To take its place.

In India, the landscape
Is measured in colours and
Languages and attires.

In India, the colour of the earth
Changes with a cycle of a
Kaleidoscopic, but very
Random, regularity.
There’s no saying what you’d
See next.

The wet sands give way to
Yellow mustard fields
Only to be replaced by
Acres and acres of banana

The yellow of the mustard
Cuddles up with the greenish
Hue of the banana trees,
But before you could write
A story, it would be replaced
By black and blue bamboos
Of the sugarcane fields.

The marriage of colours
Along with the separation
Of terrain and the
Magic of the local
Tune of the dialects
Is a dish served with
A love unseen, unpalatable
And unknown to our taste.

But the exploding of the
Tightly packed morsel
Invades ones senses
And endears it in a world
Of its own making.

The train halts at the
Station and I hop out of it.
I pull my bag tighter around
My waist and hitch it up
As I walk to the gate
Where I know some wait.

One journey ends, and
Another begins.

I meet some old timers,
Now doubled in count;
Some fair weathered ones
Whom I know since long
And a new face, that
I never saw before,
Peeks from behind the
Open boot of the car.

One journey ended, and
The other had begun
Without me.

But I was a part of
It now.

Siddiqui F.

Note: This was written at my desk after I returned from a trip to Munnar. I had planned to write about the visit, but I somehow ended up writing about the train journey rather than the visit per se. Also, if one was to notice, this is a train journey describing routes and landscapes for the northern part of India rather than the South. Deal with it!

What say you???

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


  • 10,224 hits

Click! Click! Click!

Join 381 other followers

Jump to…


You will die the way you lived.

Aamil Shaheen

Delusions of grandeur

The Mundane

Finding the extraordinary in the ordinary.


...a whole buncha Tian'ness.


book reviews and more...

The Musing Quill

A Blog on Writing, Poetry, Short Stories and Books.


لفلسطين الحرية

Murphy's Law

Musings from a Literacy Coach

Literature Is My Porn

"She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live."

Three Magical

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Redeem the Thought

because thoughts become movements


Publishers of Fine Verse from India


"After all, tomorrow is another day."

Getting Loquacious

About life and everything else!


Bridge the Gap , Bring the Change

| Ramble On |

And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song

Unbound Boxes Limping Gods

The writer gives life to a story, the reader keeps it alive.

Ashish Shakya

Writer. Stand-up comic. General idiot for hire.

schizophrenic dreams

It is Dark, and I like it that way...

necessary means

occasional outbursts on art, philosophy, and life


... well we're going to die anyway!

Pulp & Fiction

We all change when you think about it. We’re all different people, all through our lives, and that’s okay, that’s good. You gotta keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be.

reading interrupted.

because reading also involves the way your head rests on your hand as you lean over a book, the damp mark you leave on a page when reading in the tub, or being interrupted by a

--- Grumpy Comments ---



Sharing knowledge benificial for duniya & akhira

Dad, the idiot

anchoring households for thousands of years

Yeha, Whatever.

(This blog looks boring, intentionally.)

My Musings

Simply Put....its a conglomeration of my thoughts as & when they occur

%d bloggers like this: