The Elevator

We scurry to work,
but are prepared
to make a guest appearance, 
into an experimental stage;
with hardly Shakespeare’s actors 
but neighbours, cleaners, strangers,
everyday people.
We care not for the genre:
tragic, fantastical , romantic acts
or simply commonplace realism;
but for the experiences 
carved by daily stimuli,
from cubicle to cubicle.


We smile, stare or preoccupy ourselves,
in fallacious mental rehearsals. 
The eyes that meet, are transformed
into frank disclosures,
or dubious experts.
But, in all earnest,
we hide our reactive countenance,
while cautiously envying
a Snicker-smudged toddler,
smirking at heeled beauties 
or slick men bathed in perfume.
We all do play parts, 
(but some of us with learned ease)
embodying a million expressions.
But when alone, 
not only does B1 to floor 32 come in a jiffy,
we think lonely, surly thoughts
of the whys and wherefores,
“why was I irked by the gleeful cheers of that kindie?”
“wherefore did I consult my watch,
when she entered on floor 28?” 


Elevated, these journeys go on, day after day.
We notice or chose to be numbed
by the roles we play.
We still curse at frugal time,
but never at ouselves.
Like our blue ball that eternally spins 
relentless on life’s axes,
the elevator is undisturbed,
it soars into the skies
transporting us into moments 
of the past, present or future 
or into moments of temporal absence.

Rajashree Anand