Kites

In hundreds and hundreds,

Bedecking the evening sky,

Shining like jewels in the twilight

Kites soar graciously high.

Its the Sankranti evening

Kite-masters standing all around,

Roof-tops, overbridges, roadsides.

Manoeuvering with expertise,

Threads invisible, though attached.

Kites, they dip and glide and twirl and turn.

All eyes are turned skyward.

Turned upon the flying kites.

Fortunate

For they don’t have to see:

A mother, drunk, wasted, by the roadside.

Her toddler tasting what’s left in the glass.

A man scratching on his own wounds.

For the bigger they are, the more alms they yield.

Another man sneaking upon a girl under the bridge.

Poor wretch, sleeping after a long day’s toil.

The kites continue to dazzle the sky.

Like birds on strings flying high.

And I, I buy a can of coke.

And return to the comforts of my hostel room.