Thamel's burning

The dust,
The congestion,
The sly ambush questions:
The 'Reekshows?'
The 'Taxis?'
The 'Somethings?'
The 'Smokes?'.
The skulking in niches
For groundless baksheeshes,
The chronic fatigue
From interminable pokes.
The ducking,
The weaving,
The pedestrian-cleaving,
The lurching,
The splurching,
The inch from my nose.
The beeping,
The hooting,
The perennial honking,
The hooting for moksha,
Be swift on your toes.
The glaring,
The staring,
The pretence of not caring,
The grasping,
The wanting,
The pall of despair.
His juvenile hand slung on
Compatriot's shoulder,
That minutia of motorbike
The only space spare.
The shouting,
The touting,
The unrestrained spouting,
The tapering oo...
At the end of the phrase.
The clamorous cries
Marked by glottal ingestion,
The intractable cacophony
Of querulous strays.
The odious aromas,
Recrudescent stenchomas,
Cadaverous cabbage,
The mildew, the mould.
The ubiquitous urine
In clandestine bogholes,
The naptha of diesel,
But the water's still cold.

The waste heaped by roadside.
The ramshackle building.
The scant public service.
The things just not working.
The reliance on giving.
The want of investment.
And conclusive self-government.
The intransigent rulers.
The constant rejigging.
The archaic perceptions.
And low expectations.
The divisive caste system.
The wealth of the few.

The list just goes on...
Will it one day get shorter?