On a hot May day,
A funeral march goes by the railway track,
I get a seat in the chocked coach
And smile at my luck
Exodus time for south-bound labourers,
Mainly Murshidabadi masons—
They have come in flocks to celebrate Eid at home
A week has passed in mirth and warmth,
Leaving home makes them sad again
I look at my sides
And feel the warmth of the day
By my extreme left a teenage boy is sleeping
And when I closely look at him,
His sweaty, sculptured face delights me,
A cheaply designed t-shirt, hands full of lines,
Face marked with pangs of leaving home,
The morning rays fall on his beaten cheeks
And tales of unending disgrace, dishonour
Drape his days.
