Monday, March 15, 2004
the phatak is madness. dust cakes the rusted once-yellow gates; settles and re-settles on donkeys, trucks, cars, cycle-wallahs all hysterically trying to get over the Raj-era tracks as soon as possible- fueled, perhaps, by some nameless fear of crossing train-tracks lest an invisible train come hurtling down the endless stretch of rail, fog-horn sirens blaring.and there, in the midst of all this chaos of screaming horns and jostling traffic- someone has planted flowers in the middle of the rail tracks. someone has marked off two rectangles with bricks in traditional flowerbed edging, and leaves and petal stand stalwart; small dots of humanity on the faceless canvas of life.
Mina at 8:03 PM
