Through the window

No longer have I settled down on my seat The wailing would ensue. Some would be urgent, short and rapid Some long-drawn, slow, as if it knows It wouldn’t make any difference anymore.

In the beginning, I used to get up And look out through the window. The white vehicles with the mirror image Of AMBULANCE would flash past Offering me glimpses Of faces dark with misery.

There were then other kinds; Cars, with lights blazing, horn blaring Squeezing out, weaving through the oncoming rush. Three-wheeled autorickshaws offered the best view. There would invariably be one, head leaning on To another’s shoulder Blood-spattered dress, blood-streaked face Closed eyes – I was fascinated by the expression Of the others – vacant, sometimes anxious, Of flickering fear, of untold sorrow and submission to fate.

I have seen them too, the ambulances with a wreath or two Stuck in the front, solemn, slow – Everything has to come to a pass.

In the beginning, I used to sit back With a heavy heart, and then Reminded of my own mortality Would strain my ears For that wailing at my doors.