I Did Not Sleep Over Bombay

To me, it always meant a train I’d missed at an empty station,
a plate of panipuri lost between iambic fingers,
roadside slippers snatching too many glances from
the footpaths that look like a line of violins bowing
to give way to the classy timpanis.

Maybe Bombay is a jazz musical
where buildings collapse in our arms,
like beats on reaching their cymbals
or where the bicycles exist beneath peddlars,
like bassists standing unassumingly
on stage.

Maybe Bombay is a dream too big
that does not need proving,
but a little time to prove itself
anyway.

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