There's a dark orange fog, of neon lights and SPM;
A miasma
Oozing, rising, asphyxiating....
From this 21st floor: vehicle lights are ants on fire,
crawling, stumbling....
Consumed in their frenzy to get home.
My Love for you has no pertinence here.
A beggar girl makes a beeline for me: दीदी दस रूपए, बस।
खाना खाना है।
Oh, I'm so sure she is lying.
Or is she?
Her Haryanvi insolence, her insistence, her hunger......
My Love for you has no relevance here.
The auto sways with berserk speed.
The autowallah has a plethoric face. Panstained teeth, a young paunch.
Kind of obscene.
He leers. I cringe.
My Love for you is of no consequence here.
The maid Haseena is only skin.
And some bones.
Soft-spoken, she
sweeps and wipes with a businesslike purpose.
And answers my smile with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
My Love for you makes no difference here.
Malls scrape the sky.
Lit with a million lights,
Millions...
Trillions...
Mellow lights, that smooth out all flaws
In my face and my figure.
Paying a ransom I strut out;
Beautiful. For a split moment.
My Love for you finds no audience here.
This City.
This dust encrusted, smoke screened city.
This cruel, no-one-cares City.
This never-stopping, brakeless City.
This dead-skied, poem-less City.
This your City.
My Love for you
Writes no story here.
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