Globe-Trotting
Harshita Srivastava
Three bags full (not of wool) sit
one atop the other barely balancing
my out-of-control anxiety. Fumbling
into the pockets of my brand new
passport case, the purple comb falls
upon somebody’s glistening shoes.
Staring at the changing screens—17:20
A20061, Bangkok, 18:50, Kolkata, Pune—
my head hurt. A girl appears with a smile
and three hours slip by. The bustling airplane
zooms away from my city, my city of joy.
Now away from home, my feet hang suspended
in mid-air like a dying fish looking up.
Bombay. The overstuffed backpack moves ahead
and finds itself among multi-coloured faces
ready to spread all over the world.
Amsterdam, 06:10, Pre-Boarding—my head
is less fuzzy, hands tremble less and the purple
comb does not slip. Eight hours later the clock
has only skipped two numbers and night and day
and day and night are beginning to misbehave
and oh, my head, my head is tangled and so is my hair
and there still remain eight hours as Detroit
is still so far and people are slowly turning white
and the time is not moving yet moving so fast and
so slow that a strange insanity engulfs every cell.
A German couple are now my companions
and eavesdropping their conversation stands
meaningless, just like the suspicious whisper
of winds in my Kolkata apartment on monsoon nights.
My mother’s voice enters my head, her laughter
patting on my anxious, shivering, thrilled body.
Six hours of sleep and a terrible backache later,
the unending gleaming cars of Michigan line up
like stars, and clouds look like cotton candies
just the way they do in Durga Puja in my city,
my city of joy. The world is a mirror of itself.
one atop the other barely balancing
my out-of-control anxiety. Fumbling
into the pockets of my brand new
passport case, the purple comb falls
upon somebody’s glistening shoes.
Staring at the changing screens—17:20
A20061, Bangkok, 18:50, Kolkata, Pune—
my head hurt. A girl appears with a smile
and three hours slip by. The bustling airplane
zooms away from my city, my city of joy.
Now away from home, my feet hang suspended
in mid-air like a dying fish looking up.
Bombay. The overstuffed backpack moves ahead
and finds itself among multi-coloured faces
ready to spread all over the world.
Amsterdam, 06:10, Pre-Boarding—my head
is less fuzzy, hands tremble less and the purple
comb does not slip. Eight hours later the clock
has only skipped two numbers and night and day
and day and night are beginning to misbehave
and oh, my head, my head is tangled and so is my hair
and there still remain eight hours as Detroit
is still so far and people are slowly turning white
and the time is not moving yet moving so fast and
so slow that a strange insanity engulfs every cell.
A German couple are now my companions
and eavesdropping their conversation stands
meaningless, just like the suspicious whisper
of winds in my Kolkata apartment on monsoon nights.
My mother’s voice enters my head, her laughter
patting on my anxious, shivering, thrilled body.
Six hours of sleep and a terrible backache later,
the unending gleaming cars of Michigan line up
like stars, and clouds look like cotton candies
just the way they do in Durga Puja in my city,
my city of joy. The world is a mirror of itself.