Motherland

In the nascence of dawn, women wait, drenched in sweat,

With fish-filled baskets made of bamboo on their heads.

Men wearing oversized shirts and dhobi[1]-washed pants,

Are hurriedly reading crumpled newspapers of the ancient tongue.

They wait, like runners on their marks, by the filthy platform.

Large rats that infest the tracks race away as the monstrous train

Rumbles to view – stained duly of bright red paan[2], rust and age.

Like gravel spilling from a sack cut open, people in thousands flock to the doors.

Breathless and tired they smile to unknown faces. As the train departs,

The Sun arrives, it’s hot and it’s humid, but it’s warm and lovely.

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[1] Washerman who washes clothes with his hands

[2] Paan is an Indian and South East Asian tradition of chewing betel leaf with areca nut and slaked lime paste.