The Tiger

the train stops—some mechanical fault. through the glass of the passenger car, I see her, heavy muscle shifting under orange and black, thick paws dragging through the grass; a tiger moving slow beyond the window.

and I close my eyes.

It could have been the swelter of a harsh Indian summer, Calcutta due north on the Express out of Delhi, smoke jettisoning from the stack into the blue, steam venting into the foliage; a jungle of sorts.

perspiration snaking through three days of travelling hair. men grumbling, their split cane walking sticks hammering into the pine carriage floor. agitation on every face. Children crying, the women struggling to stay dry through four layers of cotton.

the beast stalking the treeline,
sovereign in the heat,
a hundred years and half a world away.

but it wasn’t.

I open my eyes. she moves the same—stalking, her belly brushing through the grass—but the grass is strewn with rubber toys and old Chevy tyres. the heat is just a light dusting of snow. a rare sighting for commuters stranded outside the Cambridge Wildlife Park at feeding time, in the throes of mid-winter.

orange in the drift,
a captive beast through the frost,
the commute restarts.