I never wandered enough through you, mostly keeping away from dryly lit lanes even under the hot summer sun,  except

A couple of times when i wanted to ruin my name in your honour, in your lanes

I cajoled myself to collect faded paper tickets and plastic metro coins

As you hustled and bustled all over me, my existence shredded in the high rise offices that have their own smells

That nauseate. Not so much like the stench of urine on walls decorated by children for the world something day, belching

Uncouth paramours who wish to make you a Draupadi* in the bazar hoot and you remember

Ted Hughes taught by a broken voice on a rainy day in the glistening ancient heritage university where

You saw me gobble my lunch tersely while i waited for my first date with whom

I wandered the river that pass by you, never ever belonging to you creating an obnoxious

Reality that is twined with dreams, middle-class dreams, middle paths and middle everythings

Like your lungs that now douse the day’s acerbic dust with beloved poetry

For that is your soul.

*Draupadi: Queen of the Pandavas in Mahabharata