A disenchanted Maratab Ali
mourns lyrically for his beloved.
A teenage conductor swanks
his counterfeit jacket.
His yells pose a competition
to the singer while
guiding passengers to the bustling,
nevertheless seatie-khalie bus.
Meanwhile, woustie keeps
a close eye in the side-mirror
on sadah trunamath inching closer.
The handwritten board at the front
reeks of human agency.
Random couplets in graceful Urdu
adorn the side panels.
Just below, hastily, is written
laddias seat with an arrow
that hints at nowhere in particular.
Woustie's gunj baanie rests in between
some grease-ridden cloth and castrol bottles.
My dull memory,
of the Tata bus,
of the Mazda bus,
grazes past
the historicity
of your Smart Bus.
