The subway of a metropolitan is an inclusive street,
Where both bourgeois and aristocrats scurry for their daily pursuits!
Immigrants and city-dwellers wade through it exuberantly.
Because these streets belong to everyone.
My eyes meet with that of strangers,
And they reflect it back with indifference.
People are bestrewn everywhere here,
None of them is recognisable as big cities change identities.
My childhood was spent in hot streets of Agra,
Where arid laburnum and bougainvillea bloomed profusely.
Busy in evenings these streets displayed an array of,
Smouldering gol gappe and aloo chat in rutilant light.
Narrow and historic alleys of Jhansi saw me growing,
For others these are nondescript and ordinary, but to me.
Even kite-runners and children playing hopscotch on them,
Appear perfect to be flashed as a pictorial op-ed on a magazine.
Streets of Delhi prosper with paupers and opulent bookstores,
And also with the discordant cacophony of flea markets.
On the institutional lanes of theatre localities or lit fests,
Intelligentsia descant critically on redundant philosophies.
Undulating mountainous trails of Nainital are a perfect escapade.
Lined with stores of woolen garments and sylvan forests,
Streets of these quaint bazaars are a livelihood respite,
for Bhotias, Lepchas, Nepalis and local hill-dwellers.
Nestled between verdant dales and peaks,
Stony pathways lying in pine forests caress every parched soul.
And gurgling mountain brooks fondle every embittered heart.
Pulchritude of these appears personal as I call them home now.