Most days were hard
Haggling and the heat
Heading out to the streets
To be greeted by
Cold stares, empty eyes, and deceit.
City of crowds, City of queues
City of unending arguments
-Seats reserved on the bus
-The heat, in general.
It sure is Picturesque,
But it is just as hard.
The Hills calling out to you
Every time a soft breeze blew.
But, what is that aftertaste in the whiff?
Is it mangoes, is it more?
is it the relief of Petrichor?
There isn’t much to say that hasn’t been said
For the City is monotonous.
The bus, like a bloated stomach.
Sometimes its a war-zone at the door
Sometimes you win the window seat
And that’s when you realize,
That the City, it breathes.
Is the City luring you away from Home?
A pang of nostalgia
And an inkling of guilt.
For evenings bejewelled in orange start warming up to you
And so does the clinking clay-pot of tea
And an infinite string of lights greet you
At 4 AM
When you’re out
having danced with a stranger
Whose name you’ll never have known.
The faraway drone of a cicada drowned by the loudness you now call Home.