Wednesday, December 25, 2013


I turn around.
Wrinkled face,
Back bent,
Short baby steps
And knitted scarf on her head.
As if she hears me.
She looks up.
I am disappointed,
Hold back my tears,
Busy myself on mobile.
Before stealing a look at her again.
Somebody spares a seat for her.
She hesitates,
Her eyes seeking permission
From all of us standing,
For being favored.
I steal a look again,
Singing to herself perhaps,
Looking out of window,
Like a young tiddler,
Awed by the
Whole metro-paraphernalia.
And then
The bus rings with
His insistent cries
Growing louder by the minute.
The crowd encouraged
His harried father
To take the seat.
I looked back
At the commotion,
Only to see that Gran
Had spared her seat
For the father-son duo
And joined the
Standing milieu.
She stood
Close enough
I could breathe
Her grimed shawl.
She turned to me,
Her voice
Just an audible whisper
“The child was crying”.
Currents well up inside me.
A schoolgirl
Offers her seat.
Gran is seated now,
Again singing to herself,
Awed by
Sights beyond the window.
Awed myself,
I look-on
Until it’s time,
For me to de-board.