(returning to Bombay after 26 November 2008)
This time we didn’t circle each other,
the city and I,
hackles raised,
fur bristling.
This time there was space
between us
and we weren’t competing.
Space enough and more
for the nose-digging librarian
and her stainless steel tiffin box,
for the Little Theatre peon
to read me endless Marathi poems
on rainy afternoons,
for the woman on the 7.10 Bhayandar slow
with green combs in her hair
to say
and say again
He’s coming to get me
This time
the city surged
towards me,
mangy,
bruised-eyed,
non-vaccinated,
suddenly
mine.