A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****.
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.

Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.

This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.

When you hand out
bankrolls of cynicism and cheques of failure
I will show you my bullions of perseverance
Diamonds of reality

When you show me twenty stories of disappointment
I will display five stories of utter joy and hope


Take your handouts of regret and chances-never-taken
Face me and tell me my dreams will never grace this earth

But I laugh
Even as I cry
And bleed


Hope I don't regret this
Hope is all I have
Hard work will get me far
I hope hard work will see me alive at forty
Dying regrets but hope hope hope
I hope I hope at forty

Still not ready to believe
Your satellites have crossed
The boundaries of solar stadium
Far six

Still, not steady to relieve
Your delivery full tossed
Billions of fans on the medium
Tar fix.

Still muddy  to perceive
Your intellect is twisted
Bullions manning  on the podium
Fornix