Monday Morning



(Howrah, 2001)

Monday morning,
The air hangs heavy with dust and smoke
That suffocates me as I drive,
Weaving through a medley of rickshaws,
Cycles, buses, pedestrians,
Amidst the cacophony of blaring horns.
The traffic flows on, ceaselessly,
Like a procession that celebrates
The anarchy and chaos of daily life.


The apartment houses on either side-
Some decaying, red bricks showing,
Others painted in gaudy shades of yellow and pink,
Stretch up towards the sky,
As if in prayer to the Almighty
To deliver them from their plight.

Rows of shops by the roadside-
Hosiery,stationary, building material,

Sweetmeat, lassi, delicacies,
And the omnipresent paan-wallah and chai-wallah.
The wizened old man in the chai shop;
Hair whitened by the ages,
Skin wrinkled by the years,

Labours on.
The blackness of the coal

Drives the white steam

From the boiling tea.
Beneath the picture of Kali on the wall,
People huddle, sip and chat.

There’s smoke in the distance;
Has one more old building

Caught fire today?

A fair young lady
In resplendent blue,
Walks across the road,
Making heads turn;

The rickshaw-wallah shouts,

Asking her to look out.

All around,
The crowds trudge on,

The shops do their business,

The traffic flows,
And life goes on.

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