Bandra. I wear a saari...the green of parrots and chase a taxi on my way to work. It's late, I'm tripping slipping. Jimikis dangling in the heat...silk making me tetchy.
Mahim. Traffic chokes. Spits. Flies.
Matunga. Garbage trucks with flowers in their open, yawning mouths. It is a beautiful place, this bridge...where garbage means only dried up flowers and pot pourri.
Dadar. An ex poet carries vegetables home.
Elphinston Bridge. Faded billboards proclaim heroes that Bombay longs to forget.
Elphinston Bridge. Trains vomit people who come pouring out on streets, hunting taxis.
The Junction. Traffic swells. People burst. In anger and the heat of cars they bought with their hard earned money.
K.E.M Hospital. Cabbies pronounce it "came".
Grey. A dug up road. My patience has left me along with my parrot green saari, that has now exploded into layers of angry silk. I cannot handle it. I grip it in a flurry and run along. Tripping once more. Jimikis dangling.