The city wakes up from nightmares of the day before
To new hopes rising from steaming teacups
And a desperate search for Utopian promises
In crisp unfurled newspapers.
Children polished and bathed
In starched school uniforms
Walk in two’s and four’s
Through the iron gates of paradise.
A mad rush and haste to reach work on time
Is rudely stalled by a rally
Or a bus that has overturned.
Patience is the name of the game you say,
And, you wait.
A little boy with myriad flowers
Raps at the window.
Bare-bodied and frayed shorts
Eyes gleaming like the flowers in hand
Ten rupees for two bunches Sir.
You look away, as you see
A hearse entering the cemetery
And men with downcast eyes
Carrying gleaming fresh flowers
In their hands.