Train

"The press, the machine, the railway, the telegraph are premises whose thousand-year conclusion no one has yet dared to draw."

Train is strolling across this single track amid absolute silence outside and murmurs of snores inside. The speed is neither too slow not too fast, may be a kilometre in a minute, the "economy" speed even for this snake across the plains.

The tracks are elevated may be 5m above the ground. Hence they cut the world into two. One has to cross the metal to move from one to the other world. Plants build their colonies on both sides in a remarkable similarity give their sad separation. The tracks are essentially a long check dam, a long barrier for water, stopping it from washing the sins of earth in these dry lands.

There are lights now along the tracks. Some lower class houses probably. They made their choice, to live with the buzzing noise of the train for a roof to live under.

There is a road too now, along the tracks. The two travellers met for a short time before they diverge again to chart their own paths in blissfully ignorance.

There are more villages, some far some closer. May the children saw the train early in their life. What did they think about the train when they saw. Were they amazed? Were they scared? Were they find it natural? Only the children of the villages know.

There is a station which this holy train does not care to acknowledge. It passes at the same speed as if it cannot see the lowly station.

Now all the lights have gone by. I don't see a single light as far as I can see. What a wonderful sight in this overcrowded land.

The tracks are still electrified. I am shocked. The guard room at the crossing is more colourful than the surrounding land.

There is a small hill close by. Maybe a heap of soil. Maybe withered remains of a once formidable hill. Or may be mountains.

This land has seen billions of years. While I come and go in less than a century.

Who am I?

I am a minuscule change.

Summer

Summer day is the most distinct thing I can remember from my childhood. I grew up in a village with lot of trees and some wilderness. In summer, only a few trees like neem or tamarind would be alive enough to give enough shade under them. Rest shed all their leaves to survive the summer. It's a bright day with white painted on all sides. I always had a pair of chappals that I rarely lost, unlike my other friends who would loose their chappals once every few months. Without the chappals the earth burns like firepit. Yet I could find the enthusiasm to run on burning earth to nearby houses. One of the things I never did in those summer afternoons was sleeping. Everyone would sleep under some tree's shade. Except me. I always had something to do. Something more interesting than sleeping. It could be making toys from branches or digging earth for water or making compose pits for my urine. Occassionally there would be an aeroplane overhead and I would run behind it with no thoughts on who uses it or why it exists. Aeroplane flying into the sun may have inspired many souls, but not me. For me it was of no consequence. It may be because my mind was always onto something else. Something else more interesting.

I miss the summer noon's heat. I miss the hot winds. I miss the burning feet. They unfreeze the body and activates senses with energy.

I know time is a one way path and I can never go back to my childhood. But I hope one day I roam under the summer heat without sparing any thoughts on the aeroplane overhead.