The Progressive Failure

The ceiling was about to drop

It, the barking dogs could not stop.

What held it back was how slow the fans dragged

Or sometimes, not at all.

 

Mr. Walker had made it in time

Because today the superfast was just two hours late.

                                                                   

Perhaps the reason for this was the clock

Which had always been stuck on Nine.

The Platform was dull and empty

Much like the insides of our wallets, Mr. Walker chimed. 

 

He was new in town, while my presence had lingered here for some time.

The crowd came out, as if all they needed was a sign and Mr. Walker

Gave them one, by leading the line. Of course He had a reservation, but

Of a different kind. The one where going backwards makes you the first in line.

 

 

 

 

 

Just like a tightrope walker's final walk, Mr. Walker and I,

Made our way inside. We were met by an enthusiastic crowd,

Seemed like the whole world had come to greet us,

Except Her.  Aye, her. What was missed were her eyes.

 

We sat, as it moved. Forward ? I could not tell.

I looked at Him. The face, clear as a river, suggested a late night,

Another dream, foggy shapes in a foggy stream. And yet,

He woke up from the sleepless night, buzzing like a knell.

 

It gathered pace as Mr. Walker chipped in saying,

There goes life again, speeding like a race.

One foot on the accelerator, the other,

in the grave.

 

The newspapers were served before the food.

Perchance headlines about starvation killing a hundred,

Filled the stomach faster.

 

What caught our attention was how much attention

Was paid to a broom. It had outfought such tools

As scythe and hammer, to scrutiny. But alas,

It lay broken, even after, supposedly, playing by the rules.

 

 

How thoughtful of the Editor to dedicate the front page

To flora and fauna. A rampaging bicycle had been pulverized,

By a quiet elephant. Ah, what tragedy it was that the hand which

Steadied it, had been struck by a flower's thorn, and not the bicycle's swage.

 

Maybe the flower getting all the headlines shall lead us to plant more.

Maybe. Well, of course no.

 

Inside was a world that had been formed in void. The wheels

Spun on a broken axis. The smoke was plenty but

The chimney sweepers came out in force.

The food too, arrived with a stale smell, where the course was a one meal course.

 

Mr. Walker scribbled down some notes, finding the experience amusing.

The note read: Non-violence was preached when violence was impeached.

Still they shook hands with knifes after which silence was screamed when

Graves were reached.

 

We kept moving at the breakneck speed of a snail.

Our co-passengers were far and few.

Some gave me the impression of the people

Who buy a ticket, just to enjoy the view.

 

 

 

An unusual sight had caught our eyes.

Animals such as pigs and cows were having a feast.

Unnaturally, they feasted on Men and other

such incredible beasts.

 

 

 

What entertained Mr. Walker most was how they did eat,

Men of every different label.

Off with their heads! I thought. Before taking a bite,

did they even check their caste and creed ?

 

He offered me His seat. Imaginably things would look better

If I viewed them from a different frame to a certain degree.

Whatever devices we have are already corrupt, and on that,

we agreed.

 

Outside, the statues had started a pillow fight

With the fishes which swam in a frozen pond. I began to look

Away at freedom, but this comfortable kind of captivity,

Had a special bond in the prison that moved all along.

 

 

 

 

Two men of faith and doctrine began to talk.

The heated debate was cooled by the factual man,

As I looked on. Mr. Walker did not heed as I realized

Not disbelief, but apathy, is the true bane of creed. 

 

Slowly, the sun descended to its death as my yawn

addressed the moon. The spiritual madness around me

had stifled in a sleep too. I asked Mr. Walker where He was from,

and I was taken aback when he told me, same as you.

 

Mentally ill from Amityville ? Just about, or maybe not.

Reasonably another victim. He informed me His genius

Belonged to such asylums. The permanence of His genius

and insanity, was something He never fought.

 

Our place was a tremendous one, I told Mr. Walker. An honored one.

We greeted honor with honor and always  meted it out in a flow.

Whoever giveth, we taketh and finally returned it after a swift bow.

Ask Tagore, he'll tell you so.

 

Outdoors, a scarecrow had asked the birds,

to lynch him to glory beyond this life.

Perhaps he was too cowardly to commit suicide

And maybe too embarrassed to stay alive.

 

The journey was drawing to a close, and not once

Did the Ticket Examiner turn up.

I offered Mr. Walker some tea and bread

And he did partake of that offered cup.

 

And still, whatever devices we have,

Are all corrupt, and on that, we agree.

 

 

 

We glanced around as some people had trouble waking up.

The others hadn't yet fallen asleep.

I looked at the familiar foreign farms and wondered what

 Maker had crafted such beautifully useless heaps.

 

It was remarkable how these lands too looked

To progress with their hands tied

How were they moving forward with their legs bruised ?

Here too the fishes swam in frigid waters with a still tide.

 

I peered outside, the transparent window was lying.

Where were the promised lands that had been sworn to me ?

Nothing reflected from the windows, the frame had me framed.

I stared around helplessly, Mr. Walker's genius, I had shamed.

 

The horse driven coach of the train came to a halt.

I had no baggage with me, only the mental burden

Of a fruitless expedition spent in the company of isolation.

We had moved forward, or was it my mind that played tricks on me ?

 

Here too the clocks, were stuck at Nine.

But this time, Mr. Walker led no line.

He had disappeared without a trace.  Was he ever there ?

Did I even meet him ? Such questions, I refused to embrace.

 

Still the dogs barked, still the nation threatened to come down.

The golden bird had been shot and tamed.

The journey had lasted six hours ? Or sixty years, I did not know

And still I looked around for Mr. Walker. An explanation, to me, he did owe.

 

The land was not alien at all. Here too the devices were corrupt

The Platform was again dark and empty, bodies there were none.

The superfast was still two hours late,

The reservations were still number one.

 

Upwards there was no sign for me, except for a bed and a gun.

Inwards, Mr. Walker ogled me with distaste, oh, what a tale he had spun.

Did we ever move or just in circles did we run ?

Because this adventure has ended where it first begun..