Travelogue

TRAINS,
Like the infinite branches of a tree that extend into the sky on a dark sprawled out night, it starts stories that multiply in the heads of everyone who gets a glimpse of the instant it began.
It is a prism that makes every ray go wild and break into a million colours on coming into contact with it.
It celebrates the microcrosm, in its full, brown form.

THE LANDSCAPE:
A quilt with patches of loneliness.
Vacant eyes reflecting sunlight.
The moment I look away thinking, "How lonely he must be";
I know he could be bathing in the warm glow of being one with the world.
Kerala is watery green
Northern Karnataka is sunflower
Gujarat melts into your arms, prying,
trying to know what you have been up to.

THE END
Oh look, how these words have jumped over the end sign!
Off on another trip.

The President's breakfast table

On this table lies,
alongside the warm coffee and bread,
twenty 'rarest or rare' items.
He will not watch TV when he is having breakfast,
But read newspapers he will.
A story on the rope, an interview with the hangman,
he will see.
And he will read,
what the woman who lost her husband in the shootout
or the old parents of the condemned are thinking.
Kill him for the sake of the nation.
Is the rope made of nylon? It should hurt him.
The President is transported to an era,
When executions were public.
Blood-thirsty humans are erasing his understanding of
'Rarest or rare'.