Bombay, clogged with your smell
paint peeled structures
cinema posters, Premier Padminies
stalks of noise, shadows
scents of Grand Trunk Road
Cloth lines in the faded
balconies spilled bras, panties
dark colored salvars, kurtas and summer
The hijada pimp, wearing
glass bangles, long skirt
black dotted bandana
at the ash painted stairway
asked for an identification and taste
Pebble like rhythm of tabla
rumbled through my eardrums
So rude, the horns in the street
She disappeared into a narrow corridor
The door opened again
A Begum draped in a scarlet sari
emitting fumes of heady Pan
smiled like a vampire
Strong, cheap perfume
knocked me off for a full minute
Evening daylight sketched
protracted shades of our walk to a room
My eyes throbbed
Intruding into the dark
Puppet theatre
In the stale air
primeval smells of bedsheets
potpourri, talcum powder and sweat
She came close and I smelt me
in her, a stench of camouflaged pains
I touched her, feeling for the
puppet strings, glossy fake silk
In the dim lit box, poised
to strike, my body froze mid air
Above the creaking rough bed
Portrait of a man in sepia tone
White kurta, sharp moustache
twinkling eyes, watching
the celebration of glistening nude puppets
‘My Appa,’ she said
In a sweltering Bombay afternoon
aroma from the downstairs puri-bhajiwallah
swathed us like an invisible magic blanket
*
