The Blue Bus Stop

It’s painted blue, the colour of the Indian cricket jersey.
It’s partially faded. A banana farmer, a curator, two

nurses, three masons…
All of them wait under

one roof. Some sit, while others stand like figurines.
Waiting is a virtue with its taproot in patience. More

than Hindus, Muslims
or Christians, they’re

passengers. An archetype of secularism. It’s enthralling
as a miniature arboretum of culture. The ylang-ylang has

bloomed behind.
Fragrance and vibes

linger in the air. The bus stop is a parasol for expectancy.
Also, it’s a launch pad, sometimes a Zimmer frame, for

thoughts. As the bus comes,
minds return to their bodies.

First published in Portmanteau LDN, UK, reappeared in Chipmunk, India, and then in The Literary Hatchet, US.