On the Arts College road
(from Mukhamukhi 1978)
Gulmohar flowers are falling thickly here.
Stray fore-strands are swaying uninhibitedly
in the cool breeze.
The eyes, oh, the eyes of the young girls
in veils
seem to be saying something.
The girl and the boy sitting under the
tree are
laughing for no reason at all.
The paanwala near the bus-stop is
speaking fluently
in chaste Dakhani Urdu.
This is the Arts College road where I
walk every day.
What, doesn’t the Hyderabad heat hammer
down here?
Doesn’t anybody suffer here?
You might ask.
Why, don’t I have freedom to choose?
Or not?
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