The breath of my city

The breath of my city is paired with noise. When you have stepped down the train, you meet poor kids and diseased men, pregnant women and disabled old men, kids wrapped in gauze and soiled cotton. The city is so full and rackety that these beggars have to shout and sing and hit the highest notes they can to pull your attention. Hearing them is like hearing nothing at all.

Sadly there is little compassion left if you see the same faces begging every day in the same conditions. They don’t even change roles. The kids keep crying, men and women keep singing and begging for the same reasons day on day, week on week.
The noise doesn’t seem to settle, makes no such promise. There are kiwi and grape sellers, fruit cake sellers, shoe and shirt sellers, mosquito-repellent sellers, auto-rickshaws for hire, all screaming at you, as if they know you are craving and they have it for you.

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Madness of hers

Beyond the madness of the world is

the truest madness one can ever see

in this woman

who prays to God that he help her stop talking

to someone, she complains, who never talks back to her.

And then, God has a question– what makes her continue?

She says that in the bath, in the kitchen, and on the beach,

she talks to that someone whenever she is alone,

and there is never a response different from what she thinks it would be.

And God says, what ? Have you been talking in your mind?

She says, Yes.

The city we send our regards to

There’s a place somewhere in the land we live, where the city is mum

and

the waters scream

because there’s not enough light for all under the sun. 

So we send our regards to them and they get that

that’s all we can do and

that’s all they can get.

In that city, 

they hunt the rabbits for food and the kids for sport,

then the dogs bark and the people keep quiet. 

We send our regards to them and they

get that

that’s all we can send and

that’s all there is to give.

Just now

As I think of those countless times you mentioned me to people you met, of all the things in the world, your failure to forget mentioning me is what grips me. 

How easy it is for you to say a bit about me and how it weighs my heart down merely to think of all the times you could have forgotten me and it would have gone unnoticed.

photo by my friend who is fulfilling my obsession with capturing intricacies in leaves and branches of trees