The Man Without a Number

Ever since I got here everyone has been asking, what number is yours?
There's an urgency in their voice, the pitch wavers between frantic and accusatory.
With my first step in I knew I wasn't welcome here. 
But there aren't a lot of options for a desperate man.
I see rage in their eyes as I put my stuff down and sit. 
My indifference is probably to blame here.
With all my stuff in its place I turn back and relax. 
I've marked the territory, this is mine.
I see rage in their eyes as they ask again, "what number is yours?"

And I look back and say. No, I am the man without a number. And no I didn't choose this. I was forced. Pushed. But now that I'm here, I'm not giving up this place anymore.

The small space is reeking heavily of anger, there's murder in their eyes. 
As we prepare for a night long standoff, there is a complete stillness.

And that silence is broken by a voice in the background - "Welcome to Indian Railways, we wish you a pleasant and a safe journey"