A water tank for Allauddin Khilji now stinks of affluence- melts old in new. Memory snakes in through these yellow tunnels like a ghost in search of old. I pass between dreams frozen in an wooden bus, now soaked in rain-one that no one boards- for the seats are all cheap and wet, and rain can flood your throat like a bad memory- and the workers are all drunk and weary- they do not pickpocket dreams as they return home- drenched beggars sell books wrapped in plastic- and hijras are well behaved;

only sometimes, a graffiti on metro construction wall
questions the very reason for your existence.