i'm waiting for the only bus that'll take me home
in the afternoon sun's liquid grenade
which has sent shade into retreat.
besides me is the iconic LIC building:
the tallest for decades, the crown jewel
of the city on celluloid, until skyscrapers
started shooting up like mold when exposed
to the damp of the globe. across the road—
the famed mount road, now anna salai—
is the famous white façade of Higginbotham's:
india's oldest bookstore, setup by an english librarian
who snuck into a ship and was dumped when found
on the shores of madras. i'm holding the three books
i bought from there like a fuse in the liquid grenade:
anita nair's malabar mind, namdeo dhasal's a current of blood,
and a small book of kolam designs for my mother.
my feet turn pink in the heat as i wait for the bus
but it's not that hard as i have to look out for only one name.
i understand now why people believe in one way,
one truth, one god: it arrives even if it doesn't exist.
the bus arrives. i get into it. i get a seat. i get a ticket.
the heat and the breeze box my ears.
at the traffic light women with towels wrapped around
their heads beg and peddle meaningless objects:
a battery fan, a dozen banana, plastic pens.
the man behind me takes a pen from an old woman
but when he asks, how much, she says nothing,
waves her hands, and goes away, disappearing
into the green parting between the way that goes out
of the city and the way that comes into it.
the man puts the pen into his pocket. i shuffle the order
of books on my lap: anita to the bottom, dhasal on top.
post-script rhetorical questionnaire:
how many of those who romanticize the checkered floors
and white façade of higginbothams have stood across it
in the brutal sun waiting for the bus? how many of those
who philosophize the waiting for the bus have peddled
pens in the brutal sun? how many of those who peddle
pens in the sun have been bought and tucked into someone's deep pockets?
~ ajay
26/8/2024
