There is a crack in the tin-roof above.
Rain water noisily drips,
while the baby turns in its borrowed crib.


There is the fetid stench
of rotten cabbages,
and news of many a wench
earning meagre wages.


Out of these thin walled rooms
separated by flimsy plywood,
the ply their trade,
with a ragged curtain covering the space
through which one enters this shit- hole.


In midst of all of this,
I have erected my makeshift home.


Occupying rent-free a space,
that is more of a dot on a blank canvas
With thin scrawls crisscrossing it.


This space is me.
Don’t get me wrong.
I am not your regular lazy bum,
who settle rent free,
In every crease.
inevitably  dousing herself in grease.
Threatening to light fire
And inviting collective ire!


There is dignity in my labour,
though there is no apt word
for such display of valour.
Only the glowing absurdity,
of this decrepit existence.
And the mundaneness
of a life half lived,
like one end of a burning candle,


There is misplaced joy in living this lie,
forever hanging by a thread,
filled with dread,
and anxious about the slightest tread.
From lawless booted officials,
who are more of henchmen
than guardians of law,
Who feasts on our innards
And  threaten to drive us out,
Of our living space
every now and then.


There is some semblance,
of singular madness here,
and strident chords from an old, battered piano
that fork, a piercing blaze of lightning
In the dark inky blue sky…..


That is what I would like to tell you
But then I will only be guilty of fabricating.

There is no glory
In such a life.
Only the jagged edge
Of a freshly sharpened knife!