For the last two weeks, my writing is less frequent, and almost breathless. Poetry escapes once in a while, like short shallow breaths, deprieved of the space to breathe in complete sentences, however overloaded on emotions.
Doing rounds of various government offices. In the lift, the smell of authority, vada-pav, shoe polish and whirled bank all mingling and me, struggling to breathe shallower still.
Yesterday, I humpty-dumptied and fell down that strange flight of stairs. Of lapses and reasons. Of pasts and possible futures. And into the darkness fly all smells and sights. All senses and flights.
Between the Project Director’s office and the fountain, a sky roof like structure opens to the almost brown sky. Anorexic birds fly, or attempt to feebly pretend. Shanghai is far off. And Bombay weeps tears of petrol, or perhaps urine. Either way, it’s all you can smell in this city.
Inside, they’re building link roads in the air. Me, an infrastructure consultant in an almost thriving city of ghosts and strange street names.
This.
Another disquiet day in the life of a pretender.
