The Railway station in my home town

is a silent, wonderful spot.



Far from the town,

3 Kms away,

it is unfrequented………….

Built decades ago,

its old buildings and a

tarnished name board,

neem and tamarind trees…….



Remaining asleep,

it wakes up in the evenings.

Men and women who journey,

arriving…………

vehicles  parked,

cars, auto- rickshaws, cycles……..

It comes to life,

when the awaiting souls

look to the south

for the Quilon mail to arrive

(that hails from Kerala) …….



Porters rush, trolleys creek,

children jump in the air

(made quiet by their parents)

Policemen tighten their caps.

The platform is occupied…….

The Quilon Mail arrives like a giant,

long, endless

compartments in sequence

as a big, anaconda snake……

Fruit sellers tip-toe hither - thither.

Food vendors hustle.

Officials go criss-cross.

Passengers board and alight.

Parting words spoken.

Everyone in a fume !

All in the game! ..........

Whistle blows.

Signals exchange.

The train departs.

Its wheels gain momentum.

People disperse,

vehicles take a turn.

The Railway station is an orphan again.

It is there,

silent, dark,

unpeopled, dream-like ………………..

                     ---------Ramesh Iyengar