In the Bazaars of Agra
Round and round we go,
Through meandering alleys,
Each more similar than the next.
Unbothered by the rabble
Of hawkers, street dwellers and tourists
(Getting ripped off while thinking they snagged a good deal),
Our rickshaw driver pulls to a stop:
‘Have we arrived right where we started?’
There was no way of knowing for certain.
Back into the din we proceed,
The sun now scrutinizing us intently,
As shopkeepers, their clothes, bangles, spices, mirrors and
Flowers (for weddings/ funerals, as fate decides),
Clamor for our attention.
Far from the place we call home,
Our senses jolted by unfamiliarity,
Sights, sounds and smells collide,
Into one steady commotion.
Swallowed up whole, we realize —
Years of city-dwelling have rendered us
Tone-deaf to how
Life has the capacity to
Birth itself everyday.
