Mother Courage

Route no. 215A
A smothery Kolkata afternoon
When the weird sun
Prefers to Shroud itself
In a thick grey overcoat
Even though the ambient temperature
reads 45 degrees celcius.
The passengers melting their skin off,
Cling to the iron rods to maintain balance.
Their cotton shirts and sarees
Cling to their meaty flesh,
obscenely.

A mother and a son
She trying to carry 3 big jute shopkeepers
He trying to carry himself.
She waits for the college student to get off
So that she can stretch her fat body out
onto the ladies' seat.

The passengers stare at her son
Potbellied. Neatly brushed hair.
A picture of gallantry.
Except, all his appendages
Bent at unbeleivable angles.
His face screwed up in an
abnormal expression.
And the constant nodding of his head;
He is mentally challenged :
They think.

She, is unconcerned.

Her white bra strap
Peaks out from under her blouse.
Soaked to her skin
In her own salty sweat.

A silent companionship
In a society of patronisers.
Courage doesn't always
Ride a magnificent horse
With gleaming stirrups.

Sometimes it is seen too
On sick city streets
Boring in their mundaneness
In second hand wooden buses
With painted route numbers.
Like, 215A.