Guilt

In Mumbai's grip, from '98 to '02 I roamed,

A bachelor's realm, town streets my home.

Trains were a rarity, once a month to Borivli's gate,

Visiting kin, no daily commute's harsh fate.

 

Returned in '11, the city transformed, alive,

Teased by friends for lacking car and drive.

Yet I chose rails, not from car-hate's spite,

But for speed's edge, in the morning light.

 

Crowds crushed like sardines in metal tombs,

Sweat-soaked bodies, a chaotic doom.

Elbows jabbed, feet trampled in the fray,

Yet I endured, saving time and pay.

 

Flyovers sprouted like vines on concrete walls,

Cars surged ahead, answering speed's calls.

No more the wait in endless, choking queues,

Door-to-door bliss, in air-conditioned hues.

 

Eastern Freeway sliced through the urban sprawl,

To Chembur and beyond, no time lost at all.

BKC connector bridged the eastern divide,

Smooth as silk, with the city as my guide.

 

Then Delisle bridge crumbled in a thunderous crash,

Back to locals I dashed, in a frantic dash.

Bodies piled high, like waves in a storm-tossed sea,

Gasping for air, in humanity's misery.

 

Months passed, I hired a driver, woes erased,

Parking puzzles solved, in luxury encased.

Coastal Road opened, waves whispering below,

Bandra to Nariman Point, thirty minutes' flow.

 

Aqua line metro gleams in underground grace,

Airport runs easy, no traffic's embrace.

Evening flights beckon, without dread or delay,

While I sip comfort, in my privileged way.

 

But guilt gnaws deep, like thorns in my chest,

As thousands cram trains, denied any rest.

Limbs entangled, faces etched with despair,

Dreams crushed daily in that sweltering lair.

 

I glimpse from my car, their eyes hollow, resigned,

Bodies battered, spirits broken, confined.

While I glide serene on roads built for the few,

Their suffering haunts, in shadows anew.

 

Once on the metro, sparse crowds caught my eye,

No workers in sight, fares too high to try.

I pondered briefly, then turned away fast,

Too wrapped in ease, letting questions pass.

 

If my path smooths, surely all share the gain?

Yet truth whispers no, in the poor's endless pain.

Guilt swells like monsoon floods, drowning my cheer,

For their daily hell, while I shift to high gear.

By Vinod Joseph