Greetings from a fellow traveller I see everyday
who carries the whisper of a childish gaze
When our eyes meet,
we greet—
in nods and wordless sentences
breaking them at every minute by the hour
The fellow traveller holds my attention,
at every stop the bus makes—
to accommodate passengers that glide in;
He acknowledges the spot I reserve everyday—by the window seat of the bus I take
catching by the very sunny hour I make
I take an hour’s journey to study him:
convoluted features; expressing a heavy heart,
with so much to convey Deposing no commonness—
He wears a smile that would give a toothache on a sweet candy,
And, a face—
so cheerful, to that of sunlight that pours itself on a windowsill
giving warmth and sunshine on a summer day
As I feel our plausible unretired relationship—
I temper my misgivings and care about this unusual fellow traveller,
He seems to have had something on his mind, I cannot figure nor explain.
In another time, another day,
We broke our wordless sentences—
He asked me the time,
Engaging my eyes onto the words chosen carefully
I accorded my reply
I’d never lose sight of that childish gaze
I’d tell him but wouldn’t that make him run away?
So I stuck to my short answer which I chose very carefully,
with the intent of continuing our ever long unretired relationship—
I resorted to my reticent self
And, so did he,
to the guise of an unusual quiet fellow traveller
But one day, He went so far and away,
I waited by the same spot I take
the sunlight did not pour on the windowsill that day
My apprehensions of where this fellow traveller might be—
grew into that one queasy long hour
Seemingly longer than the usual,
It was my longest one hour, indeed.
To this day, I don’t find the unusual fellow traveller,
For, wherever this fellow traveller may be—
I remember our elaborate sentences
the bluest shirt you wore,
the brown strapped satchel you held onto; co-ordinating the colour of your hair—
You made the mark of an unusual fellow traveller,
A fellow traveller that I long to see,
wherever this unusual fellow traveller may be.
– Shweta Kher
IT'S POETRY. IT'S HISTORY. 
Thnx for sharing your poem. It justifies that poetry is hidden at every moment of our life. Very well written!
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I appreciate you taking out your time to read my peice. I am grateful. Indeed, we find ourselves in hidden traces poetry—evoking emotions in which we find ourself truly. 🙂
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^traces of poetry*
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When I studied in London I used to find studying characters during the commute was college was fascinating. Also, the behaviour was sometimes intriguing. I recall one lady who rode the train every day from Richmond but never uttered more than a casual response to a greeting. This same lady used to go to a pub I sometimes frequented where she would talk until closing time. I miss commuting but your delightful poem brought back several memories.
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That is indeed, beautiful. To observe people during the commute or as a passerby is something extraordinarily intriguing and fascinating to one’s imagination. This is purely a work of my fiction, a piece of my imagination. But to have brought back memories to a delightful reader, makes me very happy. 🙂
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