The Loco Pilot
“In the last thirty years, Three hundred and sixty kills- Mind you, kills, and I don’t keep track Of the mutilated, the disabled, the living dead Who fell before me on the tracks.”
He takes a sip of the whiskey, A deep drag of the cigarette Looks out through the window - I see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.
Outside, the river roared as it gushed The birds sang as they flew Wind ran helter-skelter among the trees The setting sun scattered golden light as it sank.
We were old friends, meeting after forty or more years, This boyhood friend of mine Who tagged behind me all the time In awe of my bungalow, dogs and my little deer.
How sharply does he remember! My metal school box he had envied The goodies I had shared with him, Apples and chocolates - My father, the big officer of Forests!
“There are many ways they do it, you know,” he said “Some jump head-on, some would be lying down Their necks neatly nestling on the rail, Some would be walking, facing away from the train.”
“But one image that even my deadened mind Cannot wipe off Is that of the one who stood in the headlight, Arms raised, palms joined, A last and final bow to me, her killer.”
“Women dragging their screaming children Up on to the rails, young girls and boys - In the rumble of the diesels I strain my ears for that soft thud, like a loving pat As I usher them into the netherworld”.
“We are old hands, we know it all The bends, the blind curves The favourite haunts of the wanting-to-be-dead. We dread the day, the next after The public exam results come.”
“We have to move on, you see, Cannot bring the big diesels to a sudden stop. Every time, I watch them, their final moments Helpless, with a heavy heart Not even a silent prayer.”
The cigarette burns down to his fingertips. “This is what I have done with my life - All I know is to drive trains – And to kill people.”