Monday morning, Howrah, G.T. Road;
The air hangs heavy with dust and smoke
That seems to smother me as I ride across-
Waving through a medley of rickshaws,
Cycles, buses, pedestrians-
Amidst the cacophony of blaring horns,
Amidst the traffic that flows on, incessantly-
Like a procession that celebrates
The anarchy and chaos of daily life.
The apartment houses on both sides of the road-
Some blackened, the bricks showing,
Some painted freshly in gaudy shades of yellow and pink-
Stretch up towards the sky,
As if in supplication to the almighty one
To deliver them from their plight.

Rows of shops on either side-
Sweetmeats, lassi, delicacies,
Hosiery, building material,
And the ubiquitous chai-wallah and paan-wallah.
Smoke in the distance-
Has one more building caught fire today?
The wizened old man in the tea-shop-
Hair whitened by the ages,
Skin wrinkled by the years;
Does he resemble Bhisma Pitamah?
The steam from the boiling tea,
The blackness of the coal that drives it,
The picture of Kali on the wall,
The huddle of people surrounding.
And a fair girl
In resplendent blue,
Walking across the road
And making heads turn.

And all around,
The traffic flows on
The shops do their business,
And life goes on- and on.