Thursday, 26 July 2018

Through the Fish bowl

Bharat series 

The kids from across scream "kaifah haluka,"
to the Muslim foreigner in a bid to know an outsider,
The ladies doing khusur phusur
 sit like gurus on their stairways
in the know of all community woes,
The dust due to metropolification 
pollutes the air as nicotine smoke
lays down its wreath.
The spicy tinge of masala in almost everything
stings the tongue yet cures a pang 
The busses during rush hour are
packed like slices of bread in poly,
it's no wonder it's a perfect place for "baba gulshan ji" posters.
The metro at its peak makes the city look like
Tetris blocks; ayeh, you'd miss the Pakistani salt blocks
and mukhauta's hang on buildings to keep away bad omens.
The lust for money sometimes-
turns the society into a den of petty thieves,
so some lose their dignity in exchange for a swindled rupee,
The malls are state of the art,
despite meeting insatiable wants and desires,
their beauty is the tightly knit family units
enjoying a feast in the food court.
The monsoon winds bring a wave of fresh air after a dry spell
but the floods are a menace,
it's hard to know if you're trekking in rain or sewage.
The people's hooting and hollering
for every other little thing during corporate rush hour
depicts an ardent lack of patience.
The culture is still deeply rooted but occasionally,
you find ladies in hot pants and men struck with hands for eyes.
The feeder roads have a cartwheel assortment
of all you can eat seasonal fruits and mosambi to cool the tummy.
The bar owner breaks a coconut at his entrance,
and burns some incense in the morn
to welcome drunks and loners to their very own suicide show. 
The way they castesize  one another is peculiar;
ayeh some of them don't care, t
hey are sweet as mangoes from Gujarat to one another,
The transvestite community comes of as self righteous,
they won't blend in to earn their way and thrive-
so denied by society they beg to survive.

To be continued... 

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