The Metro Station

You dress up in black and white -
Black cargoes, white socks, black sneakers,
White tank top, black jacket, white face,
black shades, to hide the rainbows of emotion in your eyes.
You place your feet apart at a distance
of your shoulder blade,
jut your hip out at an angle to balance the neon air.
Not that it needs balancing,
Or anything here, needs balancing,
but only, you think it is your duty to do the balancing.
So you stand in that pose, a pose
no yoga teacher ever taught you.
You turn your head sideways,
sew your lips with the thread of quiet and wait.
Wait at the metro station of life, for the train to arrive,
hoping the passengers would brim with applause,
who would take you home and allow you to stay
in their company.

The Metro Station

But when the train does finally arrive,
there is only a single passenger instead,
curly grey haired Realisation,
in a frayed kurta and dirt encased pair of chapals,
who passes by you nonchalantly,
but who strikes the match of curiosity in your shielded eyes,
and almost miraculously, you straighten up,
wake up from your trance,
and follow her,
once again,
alive.

The challenge, now, is to keep pace,
to not lose sight of her,
until she leads you home-
to the home where you were meant to be.