The world through a glass window; toughened glass to be specific, looking into a tunnel; a dark tunnel
It is smooth, fast; and encapsulates me into a cemented miasma
Even if it were the sky, even if I was not under ground. I am above the rest, above the humans dwelling underneath my high traction wheels of a mechanical marvel
I am Delhi, the city fuelled by the dirty sweat of a man under the wheels, and the ever renewed cravings of the master
The master who rides in this train, this train above your head, above my head and above the sapless grass
There is a feeling of not feeling the dust anymore, so pleasant one might say, away from those unholy sight of faces on the road , of a vagabond traversing the streets, limping his way towards no destination in particular
Unlike you, he is not late for anything. There is nothing in particular he may wish to achieve. He trodes on and on and you never notice his limp. The limp that may have started as a slight wound that spread to his body when he was a mere thirty of age.
The bus takes such a long journey, such a long one. The visual capacity of the window shows me this blue road not from an aerial perspective but well almost close to the rolling dust swirling on the footpath.
But I am still above, am I not?
This low floored, long green bus designed by the ‘JNU’ is very different in nature from the air conditioned metro. I do not see the clouds, the speck of birds. I do not listen to Ludovico in my ears. I do not close my eyes. I do not shut out the real Delhi that resides beside me.
I try to block it away, the glass doors open and shut, The tunnel is gone, I can smell the whiff of a polluted air near the once pristine Yamuna river. Pristine seems like such a wrong word used just in order to use a mighty word to impress, to elongate a meaning that is lost.
Each time I get onto that steel and alloys of iron like machine I silently, knowingly let go of a piece of reality.
I do not tint my glasses, I simply rise above these unscrupulous visuals that would cause much fatigue and chagrin.
My mind is comfortable to not feel my hair frizz out in the hot wind or sense the dark swarthy looks of that fume running towards my clean visage. The grays of my life are reminisces of a past I do not live any more.
I furrow into this cool closet where I have forged a separate journey. A journey that is far away from the man that limps on the footpath or the beautiful child in her pink frock who prances to catch up to her mother.
It is lost as I rise above to see clouds, they mesmerise but at the same time mock me. Reminding me of how I have distanced my roots as a human of the ground , the loam of my very life, instead I crave for the sky. the sky that holds no benefit for my existence. The sky which if I could ever reach would kill me without even a proper burial.