The last bus
from Mirzapur
leaves at 9.15
for a destination
475 kms away
to be seen only
in the light of day
the ones
who board it
travel at their
own risk
they sleep,
they sing,
they eat,
they write,
all with the knowledge
that the bus
may never reach
where it’s
supposed to
night falls
grows eerie
the wind
carries the songs
of the banshee
in pain, afraid
of the dark
just as we are
it needs the smooth
caress of a traveller’s
hand, who sticks it
out his window and
waves it around
as if a ship through
rocky waters
there is a stretch
in the middle
where the driver
will stop and
say a prayer
for all the souls
that travel this nightly ride
and then restart
convinced that
death has been
cheated once again.
