On Tuesday, crowd does not spill over the tracks.
Rajiv Chowk gives fewer calls for sos than on Monday. Our first protagonist is
a metro, 6879, with 8 coaches. It enters slowly, making sure to stop in case
anyone jumps off the platforms. No one jumps. 6879 has been a metro for one
year two months and has been carrying people from Huda to Samayapur and Samyapur
to Huda. 6879 has also been a number in thousands but that hardly fits in the
storyline here.
To be a train and not make jokes about railing
down; to be on tracks and not laugh at how lifts do not lift us up; to be
silver of metro and not get covered in the advertisements of Happydent; to be
all this and still be able to push people around, that is training.
On Wednesday, the lights inside the metro seem a
little more yellow which is to say that I could pin the existence of more light
to more light and not to less people. The white on shirts compete with pages on
books and suddenly the book cover comes alive. Probably the silver leans on to
us and legs do not hurt so much when Dehradun seems (read: reads) like the next
station to Ghittorni. We finish books on metro long before we reach the ending
of the line.
What did red line say to purple line?
.
.
.
Hey, who beat you to it?!
To be on a red line and not make the joke of
injury while crossing from red to purple - not that is a glorious rejection of interchange
facility.
On Thursday, the traffic jam on Chattarpur could
see the red light well as the blue sky. Both of which were less functional. There
is nothing congratulatory about a place or a vehicle when none of them know where
they belong. To know something, is as good as shaking hands with a person
called Weekends.
On Friday I caught the metro in my hands (that was
a dream) and snapped.
On Friday I caught the metro in time. And look how
time manages to contract not only people, but also dreams.