Haven

Hyacinth floats on turbid water.

The river is now a dirty trickle.

Black winged Stilts teeter on spindly legs

plunging needlepoint beaks into the sludge.

Sharp eyed Kites glide low

on the lookout for carrion.

At a crossroad signal

a man on motorbike checks his reflection in perspex clad towers.

Buses, rickshaws, Santros, tempos with their raucous horns

warn others of forward, reverse, sideways movement

before rolling on like mustard seeds.

Ancient crumbling back-to-back

houses with wooden latticed windows chin-up to their tall RCC cousins.

The endless continuum of shops 

Selling synthetic carpets, cooking utensils, and zari-work kurtas

heaves and throbs like a living organism.

Vehicle exhaust and cigarette fumes

mingle with the hiss and sizzle of streetside schezwan rice

and mobile ringtones from denim pockets.

 

In the honeycomb maze of streets is a small wooden door.

Inside are walls of blue black Deccan basalt- cool to touch

And a statue anointed vermilion.  

The mandatory brass bell trembles mid-air. 

Here sunlight tiptoes in  

and silence pools.

~

(Published in Reading Hour, May 2012)