To daily travelers like me, Mr. Aziz was a common sight on the train. Small and bearded, clean and bright He was the perfect train companion. Newspaper in hand, brief case clutched tight He would smartly stand up for the ladies, book tickets and hold parcels For the less fortunate. An old hand in the Kandy line His neat little person ideal For walking between temperamental Carriages, rubbing intimately Against ill-fitted hinges,
Despite creaking bolts And rusty fringes.
When the trains started again, mid-May He was a changed man. Suddenly his clothes hung on him loosely And people looked at him askance. They slithered further from him In the ticketing queue- And no ladies wished to hold his parcels. There were subtle evasions And cruel barbs- And one day he comes, his beard gone The valleys and shadows of his face open to Our stripping gaze. He settles himself awkwardly in a corner-seat Wishing himself invisible And somehow, I know, That this is the beginning of an end, He will perhaps retire a few months in advance, Sit on his porch in glum silence- Recalling the magical sway of old carriages, Rubbing with familiarity through tunnels and lanes- Like old lovers, though ill-matched, arrange creaking limbs on creaking beds.
Despite creaking bolts and corroded chains.
Inspired by instances of islamophbia in Sri Lanka after the tragic Easter-day bombings in 2019.