I was in the bus
Alone
At peace with myself
My mother, am sure must have been waiting like every evening
At the place the bus drops me
This morning, like most
my father and I were chatting
regular things
my eyes moving back and forth at the speeding traffic
Last evening, dinner must have been set for me
the smells of agarbathi and food, mixed in essence
My parents must be waiting to start that conversation
we left unfinished... again
I am on this rubber mat now
Immobile
I can see my mother
crying.. dried up tears
Father is stoic
I cannot talk much
Nothing in fact
I was in the bus
beside the driver
when pain hit me sharply
blinding
Unspoken words to mother and father
Echoing through the shattering glass
As I lay on this rubber mat
Rice on my lips
I can only hope
I will meet them
If not here
Elsewhere
I feel their pain
since i cannot, mine.
.............................for Revathy, a colleague who left us last evening while going back home from work...