First, a few lines I actually scribbled while I sat in what used to be a train.
The carriage at Godhra. Black soot everywhere. Here a pair of blue jeans, neatly ironed. There a child's Hindi exercise book. Near the entrance, a bag of rice. What's underfoot is a spongy mass of ash and who-knows-what. Memories of death that weigh on me so much that I suddenly have to sit, on what used to be a berth.
Indeed, the fire has reduced the carriage to a skeleton of girders and beams that once were seats and berths. If it looks like anything, it looks like those inhuman bunks at Dachau or Auschwitz.
As I look around sick to my heart, I'm trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to evade the comparison. Are we hurtling towards those horrors?