Spicy Rasam

The big moving metal boxes..

With its wheels screeching, moving and screeching..

It moves about.. moves about… moves about… moves about…

The crowded stations await the trains..

To a city of millions, it is like the veins…

They board it…they need to go places.

There is less space.. very less space..

They hug their purses, hold on to their wallets,

They get ready to travel… they need to go places…

 

With its wheels screeching, moving and screeching..

It moves about.. moves about… moves about… moves about…

 

It’s the Mumbai Local…

The locomotive of the city’s locals…

Rich one, poor one, abled and differently abled…

All in a box… a big metal box.

The train moves along,

Without the traffic,

Without the havoc,

Without the blaring horns,

Without the sooty smoke,

With its wheels screeching, moving and screeching..

It moves about.. moves about… moves about… moves about…

It’s the Mumbai Local…

The locomotive of the city’s locals…