The Bus - Arun Kolatkar

The Bus – Arun Kolatkar

 

The tarpaulin flaps are buttoned down

on the windows of the state transport bus

all the way up to Jejuri.

 

A cold wind keeps whipping 

and slapping a corner of the tarpaulin

at your elbow.

 

You look down the roaring road.

You search for signs of daybreak in

what little light spills out of the bus.

 

Your own divided face in a pair of glasses

on an old man’s nose

is all the countryside you get to see. 

 

You seem to move continually for word

towards a destination

just beyond the caste-mark between his eyebrows.

 

Outside, the sun has risen quietly.

It aims through an eyelet in the tarpaulin

and shoots at the old man’s glasses.

 

A sawed-off sunbeam comes to a rest

gently against the driver’s right temple.

Then seems to change direction.

 

At the end of the bumpy ride

with your own face on either side

when you get off the bus

 

you don’t step inside the old man’s head. 

 

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