The City of Dreams

I do not know his name. But, I know him well. I know him by his face. Browned with many Indian summers. I know him by his hair, black, flopped to the side. By his insipid white shirt, bought off a wheel cart by the station. And, my eyes follow him as he walks unsure down the path littered with people and stones, leading up to Platform Number 5.

His steps pick up pace as he nears the platform. From a distance, I can see a brown, dusty train speeding in. Hurried customers at newspaperwallas leave transactions mid-way. The blind man pauses his sweet, summer song. And, the chaiwalla abruptly stops stirring, as if to salute the train just rolled in.

And, a thousand feet clamber up the train. Some, climb to its roof. Many hang on to its door. And, some sneak in to the luggage compartment without luggage. The healthy occupy the coach for the diseased. A couple men find place in a compartment reserved for women. They are angrily pushed out of the train.

In minutes, the platform empties. Except for the stray passenger running, a lone bangle-seller standing by the pillar, there is no one. The train begins to move. Announcements crowd the silence. And, as the train just about leaves...last minute commuters are held up, onto the train. Familiar faces help each other, make it in time. Arms flailing from the door, helping a set of running feet and outstretched arms into the train.

My man, the man I know, but do not know, is among them. He is streaking across Platform Number 5, hoping to catch the train. His legs are making fast, rapid steps...his hands are outstretched, waiting to be held. I know him well, and I know he is not a familiar face.

As the train rolls out of Mahim Junction, he stands there defeated. Nobody helped him up the Churchgate bound train. His shoulders fall. His head hangs low. Another broken dream fills Mumbai's sultry air. The train picks up speed, another dream drifts into the distance. Never to be held again, never to be dreamed.