My ear to the streets:
Red traffic light, children pissing under it. Their father rubs his groin. A woman runs away.Balloons soar over Qutab Minar. Factories loose their MP3 records. Bongs gargle in a hostel room and they shoot flowers through heart. Mother forgets her own child. Somebody’s food is getting cold. You wait, I wait. Forever. For no one. Red knives over tongues. Wedding bands are exchanged. Beds rock. Rickshaws pull over in shades, sun even steams through night. Empty apartments, wrappers of glow-in-the-dark. Masala tea with cigarette, bhajans with open eyes. It’s a smile everywhere even under a punctured tyre. Choot, saale!, Harami ke Pille!. ‘Peace!” ‘Love you lots’ ‘fuck you lots’ ‘just don’t leave me alone’ ‘my son is a son’. Amul Ice cream. Macho Underwear. Teenager bra. Prestige Pressure Cooker.
My ears are always on the streets and with my heart in between, I find you these stories.
(Pictures- Mine! And I love those baand bajaa boyz.)
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