Friday, August 25, 2017

Delhi and a Democratic Irony

I seek the obvious,
the irony of a 
monsoon morning,
as I leave the lawns
down south,
to the loan sharks
high up on a steep
pecking order.

I seek salvation
among humid, smiling faces,
even as a storm brews, 
in and around
Lutyens' reminders of slavery,
a few signage bright and yellow,
which herald sunrise, sunset,
and democratic bonded labour.​

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Ode to the monsoon wind

The moist wind,
laden with words
for a memoir,
reaches me through
the long corridor
that begins at Connaught Place,
stretches onto adulthood
at the cubicle end of KG Marg.

One, two, too many
man hours later,
the dusty opaque spectacles
give way for a greener tint.
It's monsoon outside,
winter in here.​