The Nameless Poet on Up Bardhaman Local

Between Howrah and Serampore,
on the Up Bardhaman Local,
I’ve seen him—
the hawker with a rusted voice,
swaying down the aisle,
plastic bag swinging
against the iron poles,

singing his chora—
tiny rhymes for children,
tucked into cheap booklets
bound with thread.

The train rocks him
like a lullaby,
steel wheels drumming
on jointed tracks,
a rhythm older than
the prayers of commuters
pressed together,
faces tilted to the wind
streaming through open windows.

He sings—
his words rise and fall
like fish scales flashing
in sunlight on the Hooghly.

“Murgi bole kukurukoo”

Laughter spills
down the compartment,
and someone’s little boy
tugs at his mother’s sari,
pleading for a booklet.

A rupee drops
into the hawker’s hand,
creased like old train tickets.

At home,
in a Serampore lane,
a father reads the rhymes aloud—
children chanting them back,
their voices sweet as puffed rice,
as if these words
might protect them
from the darkness
crowding their future doorways.

Meanwhile,
the Bardhaman Local rattles on,
ferrying stories,
carrying this poet
who sells his own words
for coins,

each poem
a tiny lantern
flickering through
the smoky dusk,
reminding me—

even a local train
can become
a moving bookstall,
even a nameless poet
can light up
a stranger’s night.