Kafka would’ve liked these corridors,
These walls of painted advertisement,
These coloured towns with attributions to gods at every tree’s feet.
The running nerve of this place,
through the garble of a thousand dialects,
Sound all kinds of chants
of faith, food, and architecture.
Of life weaving through its weighting waiting slums, through linoleum hardened heel-clad grounds.
Not a day goes by without the auto horns,
Or the political instability,
Or chai,
sweet, sweet, God-sent chai.
A thousand wicks in a thousand burning lamps,
A million lit cigarettes at stalls,
A million lit-up smiles in places you wouldn’t expect to belong.
This home functions upon its dysfunctions,
Builds upon what breaks it,
ever encompassing,
entirely amassing,
fields of lands,
skills of talent,
sacks of wheat,
bundles of wire,
collected coins,
plastic bags like Russian dolls,
ringing evening bells,
a life so culturally fulfilled,
lived in the grand denominations of,
Division of the masses
and Parle G.
Photo by Drew Harbour on Unsplash
