Breathe Easier

The carriages pull in. We all pile in, a mass of urgency and appointments and last minute plans. The carriages move, powered by electrical horses, Poseidon and Zeus have had to adapt to collaborate to keep up in this damned economy. Even gods need to pay the rent  these days. We move, our eyes catching fixed shards of windows into houses, offices, lil shop complexes which become the beating heart of their own lil ecosystem. Not everyone can afford the wares of the inner circles. Flying sky high, we flit and flow across concrete flight paths without a sound. A sudden downhill descent, unnoticeable except for the slight push of gravity as if we are on a roller coaster, and the sunlight disappears. People shift a little closer, almost imperceptibly. We have always been afraid of caves shrouded in the dark. 


We have our own caged suns and moons, poor Apollo, having to share territory with Zeus and Prometheus. Damn, and they were room mates.


They rarely flicker. They rarely go out. Thankful for small mercies, we move. Destination after destination, the crowd grows, jostling a bit, concentrated at the doors. The jostling grows at the crossroads. To bigger carriages, to travel longer, further, faster. The jostling grows. The crowd grows. 


Small acts of kindness. Someone giving up a seat for the elderly. For the mothers. Parting thighs to make tiny alcoves for the kids to sink into. Villages are built this way.


We listen to our songs, silent apparitions, invoked into materiality with the pushing, the making of paths, the "excuse me's". The songs stop. We are passing underneath the place where no song may sing. The place where two lines meet. I wonder if we were to map the leylines, where would they fall now. No matter how much we pretend otherwise, we stay close to magic. Making sure wood is in the room, blessings and curses in threes, witnessing the sun and moon rise as we walk. We are thankful for small mercies. Small spells, sigils, symbols of protection. Visit the ruins of empires past and feel the stones. How many people considered them home, how many spells traced across the worn away, smoothed doorway. Do we wonder why they still stand. Do we forget to ask why they will stand still long after we are gone. Long after you and I get off the carriage, hand in hand, sharing a song.


 We emerge out into the sunlight, as suddenly as we descended. The darkness melts away. The carriage remains full. A temporary village. 


Next station is Haus Khas. Doors will open on the right. 


The evening opens up. The doors yield. The village moves on. A temporary home. A temporary void. We have urgency and appointments to do, and places to reach. 


The evening opens up with the breeze. We move out, and move on.


For Sneha Sebastian <3

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