The first thing heard is the beat of the train that crosses nearby and with the whistle of steam engine
the eyes open. A gaze at the dead fan hanging from dark gloomy ceiling, light pours in through the dusty
curtain hanging, the buzz of that little creature that sit on the hand gives an irksome feel to push it

The beat gets stronger, the floor trembles and the room darkens out, waking up half asleep in the train
all dressed for work, passing the tunnel, in the train, the flickering lights doesn’t let me open my eyes.
Someone speaks; the voice is lost as the rhetoric of the train wheels runs with high speed over the
tracks, as it presses over the metal lines the shriek runs through the body, every joint in between the
railway lines laid more than a century ago, trance - porting me to the other side of the ceaseless tunnels.

The city is tensed, growing over each other, too many people walking fast looking busy; here I get off at
the White Chapel Station, walk to my work near the East London Mosque. When the sun sets, the work
is done and time to get back on the train through the tunnels to Farooq Gunj Station in Lahore. Always a
new sound with almost the same beat, still can’t predict it; what I can predict is that at the other side of
the tunnel I will be home back and the whistle of the steam engine will carry me back into sleep.

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