At Haldwani (Uttarakhand) Railway Station en route to nowhere!

A final stop, a place contradictorily so desirous, a pack of small barren footed smiling faces near a small mud pool due to last nights heavy downpour, nearby a goat that knows no destiny and eating all the thorny bushes around only to be packed in a 100 Rs./kg mutton packet.
A vehicle in the reverse gear. A crow defying norms, bathing in clear looking mud.
Dust on the bowl shaped bun-basket of a banzaran, people jumping their share of pole vault to home across the railway track that smells not of metal not of rust on the track but of the shit all over it. The airs here smell foul. Everything seems so filthy.
The uprooted houses nearby and the uprooted smiles that are hard to find anymore on these dust-colored faces.
One cannot uproot the desire of these people to live their share of life in the homes they built, they too wanted to raise their kids to rock the world one day, but I don’t hear the call. The demolition can not take their dreams to the ground and this has to be realized, but I just dream. As hapless and helpless as these people are.
The foul smells find their origin both human and in-human.
A bookstall and an array of man-less mountains all watch over these people. The books, not sure of giving them knowledge and the mountains, too small to shelter these people.
I loathe uneducated education and I love the mountains, I live on.
A wind, mad and blowing leeward, I don’t know searching whose face to fill it up with the cruel emotions it has seen for so many days and weeks that turned to don’t-know-how-many years, of course smelling shitty.
Three GRP persons in conversation with two IB officials, looking lustily at the only banzaran wearing, but a fake smile. Remarkable hormonal tuning.

They think banzaras don’t have homes, so they don’t have anything, no nothing. Getting a home is an impossible task, so banzaras deserve nothing, for that matter. They think because they are in IB.
And they do away with the banzaras because banzaras don’t have any home, so no place is theirs. They act because they are in GRP.
They will shape the heart and soul of my country or are they shaping it?
A lad shooing smaller kids away from the air-conditioned hall, under-construction. This is his place to hangout. His pvr. His pizza-hut. His café-coffee-day.
Under-construction.
May be some day, he will get to know these things, for now his knowledge is confined to the fact this construction has nothing to do with his demolished home, but soon he will realize getting a home would have shaped his dreams good, big.
I don’t think one needs big house to shape a big dream. I have seen no such thing till the time I shaped one for me.

Here doom some of the strongest dreams, here some formulate the greatest of the designs, only here, homes get wrecked and here, they build railway stations.
Here, some sell incense sticks, sandalwood and rose smelling, here, gets the shitty smells over all other things, here, the book sellers sell their life and here, no one bothers to get one.
Here, I think about you and here, I should think about the banzaran instead, the IB officials and the GRP men, the kids, the lad, the destroyed homes, the wretchedness of dreams, the awry smell, the books and my country. This is really a place that must be worth everything to me. But this is a place that is nothing to me, instead.

The echoes of this place are fascinating and these go unheard, in the times when people don’t hesitate to kill someone for the sake of their unsolicited rights, their demands for special reservations.
In the times when spaceships delay their landings not because the Earth has become dirtier a place to come back on but due to the technical faults.
In the times when temperature rising makes G-8 worry more than the perennial African hunger-illiteracy-AIDS-many more, more than these all.
In the times when people go to the US for academic goals and eventual pursuits and they promise to change. Change what? To whom? They don’t know.
In times when inheritance of loss is the greatest found and the pursuit of happyness is traveled. In the times when Rafa clays his name immortal. In the times when Presidential elections are a mess and when a chief minister rides on state run buses and admits truth fearful-dreadful truth.
In the times when Beatles are history and Dylan still serenades first-hand.
In the times when apparent is not seen and unfathomable is what one thinks.

The echoes go unheard! May be someone has just put the mute button on.

Mountains big, giant and like a destitute lovers’ un-reached love/s always in the sight but never reachable, mock the tin-roof of this forlorn place.

A final stop. A place so contradictorily desirous.