I dream of Delhi.
Standing in Pharaganj, life flowing
around me. A girl in a ‘Free Tibet’ t-shirt, a guy ‘Same Same, but different’.
Pooris inflating over woks licked with yellow flames, children with thin broken
legs dragging themselves along on trays with wheels; eyes bright, faces gaunt.
Lazy-eyed cows with xylophone ribs making the traffic swerve. Trodden rubbish,
the buzz of flies, vegetables ablaze with colour. The scent of hard work, of
hard living on the people shifting amongst fresh white faces, overwhelmed
expressions: gappers in baggy trousers, strappy tops, eyes like saucers.
Motorbikes, taxis, rickshaws, horns blaring, heat and dust, heat and dust, heat
and dust.Overhead the sun sinks and kites fly on breezes heavy with spice, silhouettes on rooftops reel in their strings and then let them out to soar. The air like lotion on my skin, leaving me shining, giddy with jasmine: breathing it in, every last drop, of terrible, wonderful life.
I awake cold.
Thin grey light in the room, your breath on my shoulder, the clock ticking and the world silent.
