A Tryst With The Tobacco-Eater Or Who Are You Seated On The Platform? May I Know Your Identity, Sir? Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

A Tryst With The Tobacco-Eater Or Who Are You Seated On The Platform? May I Know Your Identity, Sir?



Who are you, sir? May I now your identity please?
Which region do you belong to?
What is that to you?
Dear sir, may I take the trouble of knowing
Your kind entity and identity?

Of course, of course, you know me in full,
Who hides from,
May depute some private spies,
Constitute the fact-finding mission! ,
Said the man seated on the platform benches.

Sir, it’s fine that you are here,
But one thing I dare not say to you.
Say that without hesitation,
Why will that remain suppressed down,
Bring out?

May I request you for your favour?
Yes, granted,
Without saying request it not,
Say it?
Spit not please, take not tobacco.

What, what did you say?
Spit not please. What?
Is the platform yours, your father’s?
It is of the Govt.,
Said he angrily.

Gentleman, mind your business,
Hold tongue in cheek before saying all this,
You do not know,
Who am I,
What can I do to you?

Instead of, the boss, I mean sir went on making,
Taking out of the tin-box,
Rubbing on the palm,
Calling his tobacco-eater friends, clapping, dusting,
Twisting and taking into the mouth

And spitting on the platform,
Talking of the delight tobacco gives,
The company it creates,
How the mood comes,
Finally departing with, take tobacco and be happy.

The complainant, on marking is friends, assembling
Hides in between the crowds,
Tries to avoid a vis-à-vis, face-to-face with him,
Averting the gaze,
Goes in hiding,
Fleeing the spot to catch the coming train.

The tobacco-eater-cum-platform-spitter moving around
With his tobacco-rubbing friends
And searching the incumbent
To teach him a lesson,
But he is absconding,
On marking the trouble brewing,
The storm gathering,
The friends hand in gloves coming

And from the whistling and chugging train,
Leaving the station,
Doing ta-ta, bye-bye to the tobacco friends
And they abusing him,
Asking to come down,
Alight from the passing train,
Whistling and moving,
Leaving the platform in motion.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
BEST POEMS
BEST POETS
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success