love is a rickshaw ride

Orange balloons and a dahi handi in the sky, palm trees swaying,

a little girl selling orange roses scowls, an elephant crosses a signal at rush hour,

a girl sells plastic airplanes, a young man sells peacock feathers,

an old man shuffles by smelling of liniment, a sleeping drunkard in a pink shirt,

Nothing but fragments that mean nothing much against the noise, the noise, the noise of the traffic and the crowd that pushes against my eyes.

The fragments don’t seem to be enough to compensate for my life that is being sucked away by the city.

And then I see the city with other eyes. I speak of it, and in my voice, I can hear the love which comes from knowing so many corners of it so well, and I feel the wonder once again of how many corners I don’t know yet.

16 comments

    • Purnima, me too. Sometimes, I want to start screaming the minute I sit in a rickshaw, and I find it entering yet another traffic jam.:)

    • Eveslungs, yes, there are a lot of streets I go down all the time, but luckily my work in documentary always takes me some place new too quite often.

    • Yes, we should really. I want to go back to walking around the city. I still do it in South Mumbai, but seems next to impossible in these parts.

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