This bus-stop is called
Post-box but there is
No sign of one anywhere
In its vicinity, it is not even
A stop, for buses race
Past it, not keen to pick up
Any passengers, high on hooch
Brewed in the nearby mango groves
And served through the day
The sober ones are forced
To walk to the next stop
Or race after the ones that don't stop
Or find private transport
The name survives the cause
Or is so corrupted till it
Loses its roots.
A fellow commuter hurls abuse
At an unstopping bus
We have been posted
Not delivered yet, he rued.
Where are you from?
The woman in rags picking rags
Suddenly asked me.
It is to strangers we sometimes unburden:
I have no roots
I turned my back on a reclining god
And a sleepless goddess
I am lost but I do not want to go back.
You are now in the kingdom of the black god
Who commands war against brethren
You have missed many buses but yours is still to arrive
You may catch it at the right stop.
She emptied a garbage cover on the roadside
And set everything on fire
The acrid smoke stung the eyes and nostrils
She laughed as if high on hooch.
Heaven is sleeping without mosquitoes
Singing in your ears, she said
Heaven arrives when you do not need one,
Heaven comes when you do not fear hell, she added
There comes your bus, she alerted me
And this time I took it on the run
Hoping to be delivered.
