CST Local at quarter past ten

At quarter past ten,
the tubelight starts flickering,
somewhere between Sion and Dadar

There is unequivocal night silence,
except, the squeaky sound of train engine
All windows are up,
making space for monsoon winds

The man sitting beside me
plugs in his earphones,
silencing all the sounds,
including his voice

The day’s labour bleeds off faces
writhing in half sleep
As the train crosses by twinkling lights-
of bustling capital and buildings

The train halts at Dadar,
a swarm of people board into a silenced ride,
I deboard

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