Five a.m.,
We are on the highway;
At the wheel,
My trusted cabdriver,
A man cheerful and careful;
A seasoned rider,
No anxiety there.
Traffic thickens:
Lorries, minis, transport buses,
Two wheelers,
Most polluting are most,
Roaring, grunting,
Humming, spluttering,
All kinds of noise;
Noise pollution,
Early morning air,
Thick with smoke and noise,
Smoke, dust, embers,
Sparks, carbon particles,
Honking, musical horns,
Speeding vehicles,
Vying with one another
To go past; Speed is
The way of the world,
The sight proves.
Flow of materialism,
An endless stream on the road.
At a chapel my cabby stops,
A regular ritual of his,
Prays to St. Anthony for our safety.
I, too, bow my head in reverence.
Beneath the glass altar,
I see a figure:
A skeletal frame clad in rags,
A bowl before her,
No out-stretched hands,
But a blank look,
Directed at none.
Her frame almost, I feel,
Flown with the wind,
A miracle she sits rooted.
My driver doesn't look at her,
An unusual act,
I wonder
Why he does so.
Maybe, in a hurry
To take me
To my destination.
The stereo begins to run:
Melody devotional;
My cabby, a Christian,
But a role model to secularists. |
