The railroad To Tinkamentown
The railroad to Tinkamentown was selected in Cityscape Article Writing Competition 2012, and published by The National Association of Students of Architecture.
Why are gutters grey, and waters blue.
The skies a hue, and the seas so true.
If I could travel, my city anew.
In trains the locals call, locals too.
I rush to the station, the hue, and cry.
To catch my train, at 8. 45. I’ll be travelling down, memory lane.
The faces in the train, say deja vu.
As the train leaves, for terminus.
I find my city, already up.
Across vashi’s bridge, and central mall.
It crosses charles’ lil island, to mankhurd stop.
The crowd now shows, its real strength.
Increasing in numbers, at every stop.
Inside the train, it’s a different story.
Everyday a new salesman, shares his story.
People line up, at the doors.
As kurla arrives, the crowd soars.
The busiest stop, on the central line.
Where every feriwala, gets down.
The few who stay, have big dreams they say.
To be a bigshot, they crave.
To the fort, they sail.
The places change, names n fame.
From vernacular n local, to what the british gave.
The crowds loses its fervour, in my train.
While the rush at terminus, leaves me dazed.
I begin, to wonder.
Where all these people, come from.
They did not, get down.
From, my train.
Everybody rushes, to their offices.
While I take, pity.
Coz I get to, make merry.
With the dark blue sky, glittering with stars.
Spread across, the 400001. Out on the streets, looking up, and around.
You never know, what we found.
On the trip, to the hotspots.
Of my city’s, south.
Don’t notice the moon, above.
Coz all I see, is cars.
A mercedes, an audi.
And prolly a bmw, on the prowl.
I came down here, to meet a friend.
But till he is gone, I can watch, the lights dance.
And sing along, to the city’s sounds.
The pretty, queen’s necklace.
Seen shimmering, from the seas.
I see, a lil boy.
Admiring its, eternal beauty.
I pray, and, I hope.
That if, its a foreign kid.
He won’t look.
Down on us Indians.
For all the glory, that we achieved!
I dream, of my city.
As if it was built, by the gods.
My people, show.
Not a gesture, of despair.
Only true faith, in fate.
Ever since, its cradle rocked.
This city, is Mumbai.
Maximum, like a few authors called.
In spirit, and in soul.
Beating forever, alongside my heart.