How To Kill The Time Aboard A Train Poem by AtreyaSarma Uppaluri

If books are a bore
Window view is vapid
Talking is trash
Music is muck
Contemplation is chimerical
Sleeping is unsavoury…
How then to bide my time
While on my long railway journey?

I’ve racked my brain
And hit upon
And orchestrated
And patented
My own way of
Killing the time:

Half-turning the wrist
And looking at the watch
Every two seconds –
But not for the time.

Reach my thumb and forefinger
To my moustache
And twirl it
Coil it
And uncoil it
Then begin to
Count the hairs
One-two…
Nine-ten…
Five hundred and fifty five…

Take my right hand
In my left
And set out to
Snap the fingers
One-two-three…
Eight-nine-ten
Then take the left
In the right
And snap the knuckles
In a tick-tack rhythm

Passing the palm
Over my neck
And around it
As if something pricked
But with no itch
There to scratch.

Taking out the comb
From my hip pocket
And combing my hair
Though it isn’t dishevelled.

Lifting the fingers
Inspecting the nails
On each finger
From all angles
To oversee
How longer they have grown
How clean or dirty they look.

Twiddling my gold ring
And fondly eyeing it
Though it is
Perfectly in its place
And glittering as usual.

Pulling the feet
Out of sandals
And golfing them
With the feet
Hither and thither.

Skimming the pages
Of the already read and re-read
Crumpled newspaper
But looking at
Nothing in particular in it.

Folding the newspaper
And unfolding it again
Now folding it afresh
And resting it on the lap
And smoothing it
With my digital iron.

Pulling up the unruffled collar
Tidying it up
Adjusting and readjusting it
On the nape
And dropping it down
Back to its original position.

Bending the head
And drawing my arms
Akimbo
And surveying my knees
To the rhythmic beat
Of my feet and legs.

Raising the hand
And sending the forefinger up
To the ear
And drill and piston the ear drum
To my half-closed ocular bliss.

Cursing the vendor’s
Call of tea
Saying it’s just hot water
And nothing else
Yet ordering it
And sipping the cuppa
With deprecatory hisses.

Pulling out the cell phone
And staring at the device
As if it has rung
Though it hasn’t.

Pressing down
And clicking up
The power switches
On and off
Though not in need
Of light or fan.

Bobbing the pen
In the pocket up and down
Tweaking it hither and thither
Snapping and unsnapping the clip.

Crouching in the seat
And bringing my face
Into the palms
And washing the face
And eyes
With no water, no soap
With only dry bare hands;
And relapsing
Into another bout of yawn.

Looking up at the luggage
Every one minute
As if to confirm it is there intact
Though it is a superfast train
With next halt
Only after three hours.

Wielding the hand
Like a plectrum
And strumming
The window bars
On a strange scale
Of nameless notes.

Yawning lugubriously
With unsuppressed guttural force
So that
The harsh sound
Shakes me out of
The lingering spell
Of ennui
Of dullness
Of drowsiness.

These are just a few picturesque signs
Of rail-borne diurnal boredom
In a brief while of six minutes
With a repeat treat of beat.

[Mar 10,2009: : Hyderabad - 500 056]