A small stone travels through the warm air,
Meeting its target, becomes missile.
The train is to blame. The faster it goes,
the harder the glass shatters.
Cultured gasps, contained outrage,
nods of disbelief ripple down the aisle.
The pattern on the window now
fragments my view.
The sky is separate
from the tree
is separate from the fields, ponds,
paths and buffaloes.
The murmurs die away.
We are separate from the missile
launchers. We live by the proverb,
we throw no stones.
Nearly every single window in C5 on the Chennai-Mysore Shatabdi is broken. Some in several places.
I had the last intact one. It didn’t last the journey.