Farewell to Window Seats
Harshita Srivastava
From one dusty bus to another
what could have changed at all?
The chaos and heat circled inside
the large metal monster just as it had
when my feet were still covered
in white socks and black shoes.
Now, the shoes had embraced colour
and so did my lips and eyes and cheeks.
The bulge under my shirt which had
existed peacefully all along, now
transformed into an ugly baggage—
detested yet faithfully protected lest
the newfound colours attract stinging bees.
A window seat lurks in a corner
generating a chain of memories of
screaming Bollywood songs and dialogues
out at the morose world. The white socks,
white shirt, and colourless faces had been
so determined to paint the universe in shades
of joyous, dramatic, pubescent outbursts.
Fuel only costed magic which came
out of wands held in papa’s hands;
it now runs on the coins and paper pieces
buried in sections of my pant pockets.
The metal monster used to inhale love
from window seats occupied by uniform-clad
giggling teenagers. Today, it breathes
stares of discomfort, longing and ache.