Goodbye.

And this one's for the Western Railways. To to the long, winding brown trains that both fascinate and repel, this one's a happy-sad goodbye. So, here's to the little girls that dance for money, and sometimes even sing. To their mothers who come in to sell the clips and bindis we love to buy. To the man who sells though he has no hands, to the man who moves though he has no feet. To the little child, I will never forget. The one with round, empty eyes, a half-torn t-shirt, and cigarette burn marks on his malnutritioned stomach. Exhibited for money. You still haunt me. To the little girl, who bought chocolates instead of food at the jhunka store I took her to; to the little boy who wanted only Good-day Choconut. To the blood-stained bodies I sometimes see, on a regular ride home. A simple reminder of the finality of life. To the fear-stricken faces at the blasts, to the young woman I took a ride home with. To the cushioned seats I've spent many an hour dreaming, catching up with a book or a friend, to the inside walls of compartments that tell of lowly lust. To the men who wait until the train takes leave when they bid her goodbye, to the banana wafer man, to the magazinewala, the samosa seller, the chikki boy. To the bhel wala on Churcgate Station, platform number 4. To us giggly girls. To the sleep-laden journey, to the slow's, the fast's, the ever-delayed...to the one's that never made it. To alone train rides, to i-pods, to the little boxed compartments that reek of garbage and rats and yesterday's love. And today's sameness. With yesterday, ofcourse. To the ugly dressed, to the banana sandwiches, to the over-sized women. The ones we fought with, the ones we smiled at, the ones we lent a paper to, the one's we glared at. To the squished fourth seat, to the doorways, to the book that fell on the tracks and never came back. To the men who whistle, lech and flash...ah a very 'good' bye. To the mindless conversations, the sometimes loud ones, and sometimes soulful ones. To all the little kids I shared a little of my allowance with. You will be missed. As will your often shiny clothes, and your run-away smiles. To the lonely night trains, the over-crowded early morning trains, to the stairs that led us to the trains. That sometimes never got us on time. To the very painful station-lady voice, to the man who plays the flute. To the blind, to the cold-coffee, to the never-ending ticket queues. To the essay on trains ...my very first assignment with Jai hind. To the things I've lost. But mostly, to the intangibles I got. Goodbye the Western Railways. I hate to say, I think you will be missed. And, I'm pretty damn sure you will be back again.