City Bus And Hyetal Bloom Poem by Jayendrina Singha Ray

A day so insignificant
But who decides it’s significance?
A dry bus ride, with a wet outside.
Water seeping in,
Pools and puddles outside its rubber, wood and tin.
Outside in pwd potholes,
Muck and mire in shoe soles,
Glistening footprints on semi-lit roads.
And the wood paneled dirty bus floors.
Soggy tickets indifferently dropped,
Watered by dripping umbrellas and leaking windows
Not moped.
The refreshing smell of rain,
An olfactory delight after the assorted bane
Of sourness and sweat,
Of confusion, fret and threat.

Amidst the menagerie of bus riders
Fighting for seats,
Challenging ticket prices in the heat,
With a bagful of frustrated views on politics,
Or futile views on frustrated politics,
Drawing room soaps and petty gossips ,
Mobile phones, conversations and horns,
Rides a poet with a feeling of scorn.
A bead of glistening rain drops,
Draws her to them and a faint memory crops.
The white light of the movie hall,
Against which the drops fall,
Remind her of the moon-lit rainy night,
When out near the blue hued light,
The little fingers wet, pointed out
With a wide-eyed epiphanic delight,
“Look Isn’t that the old woman, with silver hair,
Seen by no man, But still there.
Cutting threads and waiting for the maid,
Who had set the clothes to dry, and cried
When they were flown away?
The wind, the wind took it to the moon,
She ran, ran through the woods to reach it soon.
And was she the one who was made to take a dip,
Into the river that ran through the moon,
And given a boon? ”
A passing thought of the essence of serenity,
A pleasure worn out in the frowning eternity,
Their lack of tranquil vitality, integrity and humanity.