You have daily battles to fight:
when it rains, you find ways
to cover things in the rooms
of your oddly built house
that has shamelessly outlived
your ancestors —

Holding a twenty rupee note
safely in your hand
like a cat
carries a kitten in her mouth
fearing to lose it —

walking on bricks
thrown into muddy rainwater
to make a path —

the familiar sight of rats
coming out of the gutter
which has always been uncovered —

crossing in front of the house
of the single mother
everyone wants thrown out
of the neighbourhood —

passing by the little mosque
built on a paan shop,
whose imam coughs into a loudspeaker
five times a day —

buying curd for ten rupees, a tea sachet for six,
and using the remaining coins
to buy something from the tiny stall
of the Urdu-speaking old man
with a thin moustache
you wonder: even if someone buys everything
from this man, what difference would it make?

Growing up in this neighbourhood
doesn’t mean you won’t experience
the sheer meaninglessness
of it all —

and of whatever exists
beyond these suburbs
where the lights never fade.

The dim yellow bulb
hanging in your narrow alleyway
is no different from the sun
which dies a little every day.

The innards of a grinder,
dead batteries, bulbs,
some wires and metal strings,
a toaster without the bread rack,
and several little springs
lie in the backyard
while he tries...