Journey written by Nilesh Mondal at



written by: Nilesh Mondal



It’s not often we wonder at
how things like these work

the train pulls through land
where golden wheat fields
stretch on both sides of the
railways lines and farmers
yielding scythes,
cut the sheaves and gather,
cut the sheaves and ignore
bleeding fingers, for the edges
of sheaves are often sharp,
and draw blood with ease

inside the train, we bring out
food from baskets, eat it with
laughter and the familiarity of
having been here before
having done this before,
the women here sweat
too much, stains under
their armpits spreading till
it reaches their backs, men
on this train are loud, ugly,
and there’s a baby, three
coups away, who cried
through all of last night

outside places are passing by
faster than memory can know
they were there, so all that’s
left is a blur, and listening to
the sounds of the chugging
engine, the creaking wheels
the crying baby, I wonder
how these things work, and
more importantly, how long
till we are where we
wanted to be

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