My City

My city is noisy during times of silence.
The muddy pools of water echo
the splash-sounds made by passing cars.
Street lights sing the Hawker’s Call the way
young friends sing on a Saturday night.
Glass windows hum reflections of passing planes.
My city is still in the busiest moments.
Old structures reside over scurrying streets.
Trees cradle dust when passing trains
shake the ground for miles around.
Faded statues consent to be pigeon perches
amidst the continuous stream of people.
My city is speechless when all are screaming.
A nation wept for a woman then turned away.
Protectors are always the pillagers.
Streets overflow with living and inanimate garbage.
My city is manic in times needing tranquility.
A boy got run over by people running to work.
A dog bled out on a highway, vehicles glancing
over before callously turning away.
A shooting star flew by and nobody was looking up.
My city is gentle during times of strife.
Colours whirl through the air, paint the faces
of people with different Gods in their hearts.
Easter eggs and dhansak belong to friends not
just believers.
Church bells and morning calls to prayer weave
through evening and morning air the way
children of different faiths scamper around maidans.
My city is a dot on this lazily rotating sphere.
Surrounded by many other dots and specks,
by many commas and full stops and exclamation
marks and sometimes even question marks.
It does not shine brighter than the rest – no
That would be an obnoxious opinion.
But I do think that it is priceless – because
it is mine.
It is mine.
And I belong to it.
I am the koyal singing to 3am skies
. I am the motionless figure in the middle of Garba.
I am the one who walks past the downtrodden
with eyes shamefully raised.
I am the insomniac, the restless worrier.
I am my city.
And my city is me.