The Wait for that Train

A poem from the archives of memory

I hear the whistle of the train
and see those many faces looking back.
That wait to meet again,
the parting, the goodbye hug.
those kids holding their parent's hand.

I see them all
boarding the train, happy to be together
but I am not in the train, I am just a spectator.

There’s a story behind this
my childhood is made up of goodbye and hello.
That anxiety that my parents would be travelling without me,
that wait for them to meet me — after a week,
and the many stories which were lost midway,
when they would be in a train and I at home turning pages.

So while I walk and journey in the alleys of my mind,
I know I will be never in that train just a spectator,
waiting to be asked —
“Come inside, why aren’t you boarding ?”

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