सुबह के सात बजे हैं
इस छोटे से प्लेटफ़ॉर्म पर
ज़िन्दगी बह रही है
अपनी मद्धम रफ़्तार से
रंग-बिरंगी साड़ियाँ पहने
घूंघट डाले औरतें
देख रही हैं
उस टी-शर्ट, पजामे वाली विदेशी बहन को
जो रेल में चढी है अभी-अभी
इन सबके बीच
इस जीवन-नदी की तट पर खड़ा मैं
सोच रहा हूँ
क्या महोबा की कोई बेटी भी
खजुराहो देखने जाएगी कभी?
it was around 7 in the morning. the train had stopped at the little railway station of Mahoba, an hour away from Khajuraho. my travel mates were asleep except Nur, with whom i descended to roam around a bit, to give the limbs a stretch and some fresh air to the lungs. the station was buzzing with a fair bit of activity. turbaned men in traditional gear, women with their heads covered in long ghoonghats, sitting, standing, whiling away time waiting for the next train or the next decision. i felt as if i have entered a village and Delhi seemed a distant memory.
while i was clicking some pics, of the train, the hilly surroundings and all, a tall, white woman, wearing a crumpled, sleeveless tee and cargo capris boarded the train. sitting in a huddle on the platform, a group of village women, covered from head to toe, turned to look at this foreigner sister in their midst.
this poem is about that moment.
when standing on the banks of this river of life, i wondered if a daughter of Mahoba will ever get to see the temples of Khajuraho. ancient monuments that have attracted a sister from the other part of the world. it is her own glorious past, but i don't think she'll be able to revisit it.
