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The weaver weaves a sigh
As a sad thread is mismatched
His experience and art fail
At the thoughts of
His family’s misery

The vendor of watermelons,
Shouts in high pitch, ‘Sweet! Sweet!’
But as bitter shall be his night
When the policeman
Will come to collect commission

The dome of the mosque
Amidst the highs and lows of roofs
Says that God is always above
The rest are all low
However high they be!

One woman on the terrace,
Was a girl when I was a boy,
We never said what we had to say,
Ten years ago I walked away,
And I did the same this day,

Far away, the Khada Parsi
Still standing in his memory
He remembers his city well, while
No one cares to know who was he!
On approaching Byculla Station
One mind wondered, whether
Time and history seep
Into lifeless beings and structures
And live a life of their own!

The iron grille beside the Booking Counter
Where I stood with my father
And he stood with his
Generations changed after generations
But the iron bars are same

The harshness of a strike
Is less harsh than a hate word
Some truths are uglier than a lie
There is more to everything on earth
Than what meets the eye!

(First published in Muse India)


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