The Bus

The tarpaulin flaps are buttoned down on the windows of the state transport bus. all the way up to jejuri. a cold wind keeps whipping and slapping a corner of tarpaulin at your elbow. you look down to the roaring road. you search for the signs of daybreak in what little light spills out of bus. your own divided face in the pair of glasses on an oldman`s nose is all the countryside you get to see. you seem to move continually forward. toward a destination just beyond the castemark beyond his eyebrows. outside, the sun has risen quitely it aims through an eyelet in the tarpaulin. and shoots at the oldman`s glasses. a sawed off sunbeam comes to rest gently against the driver`s right temple. the bus seems to change direction. at the end of bumpy ride with your own face on the either side when you get off the bus. you dont step inside the old man`s head.