The voice of herd

I settle down in the backseat of the cab at 11 at night, my eyes burning for sleep, my back aching, I tuck in the wrinkled sagging shirt, after all the appearance of the herd matters.The cool night breeze brushes my face as i poke my head out of the window. I close my eyes and let it all drift away. I remember the sleepless nights i spent, not typing through the codes , but driving down the deserted lanes with my friends. I have money in my pocket and i eat in cafes , but the food i ate in crashed weddings had the flavor i can never forget. My boss shouts at me, but my ears crave for my mother's voice when i used to come late at night. The cafeteria serves world class food, but my tongue craves for home cooked paranthas. Today i wear white clean shirt, but the joy of getting dirty in mud with friends seem to be lost.
The dreams of a big house took me away from home and a bmw won't give the comfort of my dad's own choti si car.
Those were the days when i could do whatever i wanted, those were the guys that grew me up, my friends and my family. We didn't have money in our pockets but we had love and satisfaction. The aura of my house still lingers with me.
My sombre breaks as a truck rolls by honking and billowing smoke. I am still sitting in the backseat of my cab.

The rat 6 feet under

Sitting inside the air-conditioned piece of concrete, with promises of life bellowing from the dead walls, my hopes crave for the sunlight, the purity it brings, for the promises made by it are not fake, they are warm and calm. The dead mass of electronics in front of me promises me of a better future, but that future is engulfed in dark, covered in desperation and stinking, shouting for satisfaction and happiness. 
The piece of cushion beneath me promises me of comfort, but wait, I remember my mother's lap. This cushion bleeds tears, tears of failure, tears of acceptance, tears of submission, tears of helplessness. The space around me is completely filled, yet woefully hollow. The life around me moves continuously, yet the dead are more alive. That feeling of buried under 6 feet of cool and moist soil. No one can count your tears, your eyes are closed, the sombre is eternal, its calm there, the silence engulfs me, I can't move a limb, but do I need to move? I can be whatever I want, I can be myself, the rats around me are not running a race here, they are just rats, just surviving their lives through, like I did. I was probably the slow rat, a rat with high ambitions, but not high enough to win the race. Maybe the rat who won the race is happy now, satisfied, but did he try the cool and moist soil 6 feet under? I bet NO, he didn't.