Missing trains...

 I recall missing the train to Puri nine years ago; the Duronto Express leaves the station sharply at eight o'clock. The memory feels fresh, as if it happened just yesterday. This distinct feeling of missing a train, watching it leave the station ever so slowly, has stayed intact with me.


Nine years ago, Baba could still run with a suitcase over his head. This bittersweet memory returns to me as the train leaves the stinking city behind.


Watching your parents grow old, aging slowly before your eyes, feels like missing a train. This terribly helpless feeling clings to me as the train passes, leaving the stinking city behind. As the train passes, it also leaves my ukulele at yours and your harmonica at mine.

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