Mumbai Local Trains

My experience of travelling in a Mumbai Local Train.

The sea of people, the need to travel, the situation of chaos, time running out situations, cheap, comfortable transport and randomness is what Mumbai Local Trains are all about. Stations are like small towns in themselves, shops, people, sipt stained walls and floor, dirt kissed surroundings, often stamped by flesh and skin, rarely by footwear. The stations are old reflecting the deteriorating phase of life, where hibernation is the best possible state of life. Over used to the core, neglected out of love and the un-willingness to pay taxes, Mumbai train stations are anything but structures made of sand and stone. Knee deep tracks, stink of blood, waste, spent life and un controlled emotion that crept itselft beyond reason and hope.

People, the beauty and the beast of Mumbai are everywhere, red, blue and green rule anyday, speak of anything they think of, women, the most common topic of discussion, music, be how they de-crypt it, Women have a seperate compartment to avoid the hassles of men, they all wait patiently at the platform like all of us, but only watching what other women are wearing, be it clothes, be it jewellery or tops, they would see them, with all the attention they can, remember them till they have a notion about it and then jump to the next thing that catches their curiosity. With magazines wrapped with utmost care, bags protected with the wrath of their unknown thought process, they wait patiently for the train.

The air in the station is warm, filled with dust, moving always, irritating, fart mixed, evaporated sweat, odour and happiness. Feeds the people with life and things they have to think and go through, Always moving as different trains push them away with neglect they linger on nearby waiting for their turn the next time. Humans are very ignorant of its presence, all they do is cut it right through by walking into its face everytime. The light of the train exposes the dust particles that concealed themselves into darkness and know that its time to settle at an onther place. As the train makes its way into the station royally, people move away and take their best shot at getting into it.

The train has its own constitution for itself, along with the web-embedded compartments, where fans turn only to burn electricity and are of no other use butcut the occasional finger that heads its way. The hand rests serve little purpose, all you can do is learn to lean on to someone effectively, if not, then learn to lean onto 4 people at a time. Sometimes, if there is no place t ostand, you could somfortably stand on someone else's feet and keep them juggling or they relly wouldnt appreciate it well. The hours termed "RUSH Hours" are the most wonderful times to travel in the local trains, you would experience a variety of life existing in the compartment, the local slang, cigarrette butt's warmth, the pushing of the body to the no-place-zone, vying for a hand rest.

Getting into the local train is an art-in-itself, wait patiently for the people inside the compartment to rush out like the water out of a leak from a tank, gushing with all the force it could to free itself from the walls, that held it back. Getting in is equally tuff, you dont really require any effort to setp into the train, all you have to do is stand at the right place and at the right time, the energeti c Mumbaikars will do the rest, gently ( pardon the pun ) push you into the train with respect and verbal love that you just cant resist. There are times when there is no place and peole actually sense that, which is a wonderful thing in itself, and all that people would do is to cling to the entry door and look out of the world and see Tracks, dirty tracks, full of shit and puke. They enjoy the air that runs through their hair.

Women in the local train are really wonderful to look at, beautiful attire's hug thier bodies, perfumes linger when they get down, the curious look when they see their fellow passengers, the physical work load they carry, the gentleness with which they treat everyone, respect they have for the others, trying not to make an eye contact with the males in the next compartment, their footwear always ready to slap the occasional stalker and their hand ready to smoke the occasional cigarrette. they got it all, looks, attitude, arrogance, anxiousness, boldness, beauty and others. So this is how i look at the local trains, wonderful, full of amazing people who always have somehting to share with the fellow passenger regarding anything anytime, never empty of the filth, the stink, the memory of the last visit. Its all in there.

So, can i take you for a ride ??????????????

Blessing called Life

The pale look into the eyes, random expression, wounded soul, tortured senses, head count for the world, burden for self, hope with time and hope with practise, They sense the world with the muteness of the night, sparkling thoughts looking at the dull lighted world, searching a way of life to live it the way the eyes perceive, kissing the dust for its the rest for the head and torso, shelter aint home and home aint shelter, winters kill them for the sheer will to stay alive, summers burn them for daring to staring aside.

They live life and know not what they live it for, maybe scared of death, maybe sacred to live, hinging on the edge of decision, they let the time move, dont know what they think when they strtch their arms and ask for food, for money, for love, for hope, for direction, for a better form of life, who's here to bless them all, whos here to promise a better world, A lucky day would be generous to give them a morsel of stale and hal-dog-eaten food, dont know whats their food for thought, their reaction to the news, frown for the loss, happiness for the moment are all that can be measured.

Tomorrow, they have a new home, they have anew life, they have new friends, just the street of life changes lanes, slows the speed, gives time for new thoughts, new ideas that spring through the seeds that have been sown, reap the decisions that have been made, dwell in the moment of glory and carry on with life, uncertainity in all forms, sorrow in measures, living life on terms which told to no one, explained to none, simplified victory and ultimate death.

Thanks to www.yomtovart.com for the pic.

Television on Mute.

The swirling of air, the fastness of breath, the sound of crying, the shadow of talking, the whisper of love, sight of syllable, touch of sense, loading of the gun, the burning desire, wretched anger, soft pain, revenge in the eyes, Power of the speech, the chirping of the birds, kiss of the ocean with the sun, ringing of the phone, expressing hate, snatching peace, colliding matter, honking of the train, friction of the wheel, scream of the mute, silence of the sound, rumbling of the breeze, strum of the strings, eclipse of the sun, essence of the kiss, communicating by symbols, strength in numbers, cold in winters, stillness in movement, reflex in the action, weakness of the cemetry, frightening background's, emotional attachments, respite from thrist, pleading for life, cracking of the dawn, chirping of the birds, snow from the black and white, fading memories with no stress, pinching-pink on the face, alliterating altars for the sane, mortal perils for the fit, shreik of death, hiss of alertness, thrill of madness, decrypting the script, spreading the myth, senselessness of commercials, random image changes, confessing the done, stringing the scattered, point of arguement and transition of time.

Television on mute, aint it funny,
How would you express love,
How would you wana hate
How may have the clouds rumbled,
What may caused all the pain,
The stiffness in the mobile,
Longness in the short,
How could we refer to the cold of winter,
Suffer in the chemical chambers of the Discovery Channel,
Sang aloud with Lennon,
May be we might have not noticed the televison at all.

Simulating Death

As the stillness of the moment faints with the breath of the living, the light on the way darkens by the second, where memories linger around through the way into the journey. Still holding back, moments, memories, messages, minds, miracles, mosh-pits, maniacal musings, methods and meanings which might have triggered the reason to stay, to breathe, to shed that occasional tear that fell to the indifferent floor, to sit still in the winter sensing every inch of broken skin that ran to the heels.

Stripped of all feelings, devoid of thoughts, hollow with light, growing weaker as the light dims to the shadows, scared to look back, hiding in the flame of the truth, covering the face of the lie, with a bitter-sweet face to end the misery of the time, Soon remembering, the deeds of the unholy, sinning the right, shedding the true, to wearing the facade to cut the thoughts of confusion that crept through the barriers of time and space to intrude poison into the logical.

Still asleep, refusing to read whats written, strolling through the labrynith to hide from the dreaded, wishing for time, when all we have is emptiness, simulating the touch, wondering how it felt, when she gave the rose and you felt the thorn, simulating the breath, slowing with the delay and refusing to live, simulating the pain, when the glass cut through your hand wishing it felt worse that what it had been defined to do, simulating the moment of lost hope, sweating through the brows to find the way from the unbelieved asylum, simulating the light, as it warmed the senses slowly, with the patience of a blooming lotus, simulating the end, wishing it had come, in accordance to what had been thought and what had been thought as right.

Night Driving

The echo of silence fades as the day breaks into the perpetual night, darkness creeps into the shadows and vision blurrs into the distance, The lane empty with the voidness of a long-day's memory wounded by the unimagined. Slipping into the veil of an automobile, churning the levers, cams and gears to life, bringing the monster back to life and wishing for everything u want, a perfect place, a way to look for, a direction unbound by time and pain, the smell of the tiredness on the way, the remains of the once-lingered fragrance of her and the night.

As the light, slowly kills the night and moves ahead with the will of the master, the rear leaves behind a shade of red, coughing up the unwanted and kissing the air around, The chill cuts through the thought, hoping to stop getting ravaged by the untimely and the un-welcome, shifting the mehanised gear to propel the thought into action and making way to the unknown. Sleep is bitten by the dream of the reality , actions by the will of the mind, a thirst to speed down the way into the emptiness existing along the way, where the world might not be bound by relationships, promises, fears and redundant thoughts.

Navigating the lady into the ocean of the endless distance, the thoughts of haunting life threating to overpower the alter-ego ruling the senses at the moment, brings back the state of nirvana to the dust, forcing it to crash into the other broken dreams scattered apart by the illusion called life.

Percepting Life

I didnt try and understand it, it just came my way, didnt even opt for it, just got noticed, a wave in the ocean, where every drop is unknown to the other, a particle of dust on a busy street, shifting places by someone else's will.

So what have i all got at the end of the day, tears for myself or pity for the pie, Who knows, today here, with a flickering image of humanity and tomorrow, in a world of absurdity, fully complicated, this concept of life, made by none, perceived my many, controlled by wish and executed by desire.

Just a game with time, clickin into the infinity, will never know, when the clock stops ticking, will never know why the clock stopped ticking, been here, done what ?, been there, seen what ?, I dont see things the way they are, dont believe them the way they are told about.

See them right through their heart, perceive them the way i want, free them all to the world to care, imagine, to stare and wish. Its such a beautiful life. Neither me made it, nor you, still we accept it, dont want to mend it, leave it untouched and unharmed, wandering through the mazes of darkness to find the light, ignorant of it being left right behind.

So ultimately its a circle, who cares, neighter me, nor you, read this and think, maybe abuse, maybe comment, maybe hack, maybe die, maybe live, how does it all matter, Honestly, it does not.