Delhi

A poem written in a rush of impressions.

Everywhere the red dust

horns blaring

cars, bikes, rickshaws, tuk tuks

weaving round pedestrians, dogs, cows, rubbish

squeezing through impossible spaces

men urinating in the street

families making the pavements home

babies resting sleepily, just feet from traffic

Rickshaw drivers in Chandni Chowk

push their handlebars in front

of each rival touting for custom.

The long slow slog uphill

shames us for our western bulk,

relieved only by the exhilaration of the downhill.

A street girl catches hold of a sleeve

once, twice, before being shaken, hard,

by the driver afraid of losing his tip.

He pedals us down narrow streets

past traders hawking vegetables

garlands and dieties for Diwali,

to emerge onto a wide avenue

where Hindu temples, mosques,

rub shoulders with banks, shops, hotels,

a distant red fort framed in the mist.

Back on the street we're hustled,

everything thrust in our faces -

strings of garnets,

tiny cobras in baskets,

wooden elephants strung on brightly striped cord -

we escape to the safety of the bus.

Everyday Poetry