In the beautiful canvas of the city, I want you to meet me.
Me, a person with the oldest briefcases,
A vendor, a pan wala, a waiter, a service,
I’m just another person in a sea of nameless faces.
My work stretches like an endless, hopeless scape,
While you wear your crimes like a rich and kingly cape.
Ever thought about me? Haha, why would you?
I’m in pain, broken and perished,
With fading memories of the times I have ever cherished.
You sit in your car, looking at me with a smirk,
Why? Because I have responsibilities others would shirk?
I’m a word dropped from a long sentence,
Someone you’d degrade without any repentance.
I am that guy in the tattered shirt running after a bus,
Even that guy in rickshaw compelling to give a ride to him who missed his bus.
I return to my 1BHK home, jaded to the greatest degree,
With no one to welcome me, I end my day sipping a weak tea.
I’m a window shopper at a Phoenix mall,
Barely making shillings, that too, with a haul.
I dig into my pocket, only to realise it is smaller than my hope,
And my hope? I find it walking on a fragile rope.
My entire existence is a cancer to my aspirations,
And in a city of Romanticism, I happen to be the Realism.