Padam Bhai is an old friend, lives in Delhi. Everyone knows how hot it is in Delhi. While going to Dwarka Court in this scorching sun, he/she often saw a middle-aged young man. Sitting on the middle divider. No cover, no shade. Don’t even see the coming and going traffic. There was a copy nearby. Found writing on the same. Padam Bhai watched him/her for many days. Stopped the car yesterday. Asked, ‘What do you keep writing brother?’ he/she didn’t even raise his/her mouth. Asked, who are you? Then silent. Then asked, ‘Don’t want to answer?’ For the first time he/she reacted, that too in the negative. he/she was writing something strange in his/her notebook. At one time Padam Bhai thought that perhaps he/she might be writing Ramnaam. I have seen people writing the name of Ram ji not only out of devotion but also out of complaint.

One of my friends from Moradabad, after the untimely death of his/her beloved nephew, kept writing Ram ji’s name in his/her notebook and complaining to him/her for who knows how many days. I have his/her stuck watch. While leaving, Padam Bhai asked, should I take a photo? This time she said yes. Padam Bhai took a photo of his/her copy. Then asked, what are you writing? he/she said, I am writing a poem. After showing that photo, Padam Bhai challenged him/her to show it after reading it. Now everyone knows that no matter what the poem is, I read it! First I applied AI to that task. I won’t take names, but everyone’s legs were exposed. The machine will have to learn more to read the words carved in unknown sleep while sitting on the burning divider in the scorching sun. Well, I started reading the diary page carefully. The extent of surprise is that each and every word is beautiful. As if calligraphy has been done. Except for the waves, almost everything was visible. It was written – ‘Neither death runs, nor the train of life. Mir, I am a crazy rail.

There was more than 90 percent repetition in the poem, but I read it completely. The poet may be mad, but even in all his/her madness the poem goes on by saying or telling something. That is why poets, no matter how bad they are, have been liked. The train of that poet sitting on the divider has got stuck at one place. Can’t die, can’t even live. That’s why we are singing in poetry. Such are the stories stuck in silent sorrow. That man stuck on the divider for who knows how long, like a derailed train. Whenever she whistles to move, the poet writes in his/her notebook – ‘Mar-Mar Ji-Ji Maut Ji Rela Hoon’. Come on, I am coming too..’

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own.

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stopped train

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