The Delhi Winter
A languorous morning wakes to life
Clouds everywhere canvass an almost dreamlike state
Mist and dew dote the gardens outside
My eyes open with much hesitation
Even then they open only to softly close again
A beautiful duvet of calm comforts me on a chilly winter morning in Delhi
I walk down carefully from my dream like imagination into the real world
I realise the mist is not as magical as it seemed while asleep
The nip in the air is laced with a toxic cocktail of pollution
Oh! The harsh reality of an almost putrid air
the stench of an underworld that feeds at the very base of life
Pariah kites encircling the dead rotting meat
on a mountain of dumped dirt, dust, and other things dead,
Clawing out life from each atom and cell in the vicinity
Winter has finally set in here in Delhi
My lungs assure me of that!
The Corn Seller’s Christmas
The corn on the cob, all warm and succulent
Laced with lime, and a dash of a concoction spicy
Lights up the eyes of the ones eating them
The mother smiles, as the child relishes each bite
The beloved looks forward to the taste of love
From her lover’s share
The hungry labourer enjoys a quick snack on his way back from work
While the office goers chant all things healthy as they relish each cob
The bhutta-wala sits roasting corns, fanning the charcoal
With a paper or plastic fan, that I cannot make out yet
“10, 20, 30…” counts her little one on the side of the shop
The day’s earnings need to go up
There is no flour for the chapatti, or even a morsel of rice
It is a cold day of December,
Wait, some god’s birthday, the child recalls from the posters and confetti on the road
The one on the cross, for whom they decorate trees
The child tells her mother elated, “Mama, can we have a cake?
It is the God’s birthday! Shouldn’t we have a party too?”
The mother continues to turn the corns on the embers of the coal
Pretending she hasn’t heard a word of what her child has just said
A cold winter night fast approaches, as the festive yuletide spirit ensconces the city
The bhutta-wala’s family waits for a few more customers,
To have enough money to buy some flour for the night’s bread.
Rain Basera/Night Shelters
The winter sun is setting on the horizon
And a freezing night stares at the city
Blankets of old wool and coarse rugs may not suffice
For there is no fabric of love to hold together the heat
Orphans, destitute and the homeless, a tragic family of forsaken souls
Out of loneliness, and an aloofness of the world around them
Lonely and cold, they shiver, as there is no warm bed to snuggle into
Just a lonely shelter by the roadside, to call home for a few nights.
Fire and Smoke
Many hands curl up around a snug fire
Twigs, wood pieces, papers, and dried twigs
Old memories, ancient hurt, all smoulder and go up in a dark puff of smoke
Friends, with envy freezing the edges of their hearts,
Neighbours, relatives, even an unknown rickshaw-wala,
All huddle around a small fire
How wonderful to see, what can burn and demolish
Brings people together on cold days, and ignites a warm swirl of hope.
Acrobats on the Road
The traffic light turned red
And the vehicles stopped at the bend
A sudden dash of action caught my attention
A hula-hoop not too big, and a kid smaller than say, three feet
Pushed himself into it, extracting his tiny self in a flashing bit
It seemed interesting, as another young girl, say of ten,
Came walking on her hands, and did a somersault with bewildering dexterity
A small dhol, that another kid played, was without rhythm, or much of a musical sense!
But had passion and much innocence to still sound sweet like honey
Alas! the light turned green, and we moved on from there
While this tiny circus of tinier children waited for the traffic signal to turn red again
I wondered about a childhood of lost opportunities,
And the cruel ropewalk that these little ones have no choice but to make.
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