The girl selling roses.
A daunting moment of reflection.
A trip back to the motherland,
laced with feelings of overflowing joy and a deep-set melancholy.
The scary realization that you’ve forgotten a part of who you are, who you’ve been.
An uneasy journey that asks for you to be a hardcore realist.
The auto rickshaw cutting street corners like a lizard.
The ride that never scared you is now a risky adventure.
Skyscrapers amidst dilapidated buildings and brick ruins — a grave reminder of the dichotomy of a nation, of life itself.
The sinking feeling of being part of an organized chaos,
the brutal feeling of the unfairness of life.
The twisted feeling of normalcy in extreme abnormality.
The auto rickshaw ride isn’t that risky after all.
A feeling of undying trust in a familiar mess.
The auto rickshaw ride is bliss after all.
Red lights, red roses.
‘Bhaiya, gulaab ka phool?’ (Brother, a rose?)
A strong but sweet voice startles you.
You smile and look at her.
Her eyes see you like they know you.
A worried look, a hurried look.
Heartbreak. Aching nerves. Deep sadness.
Nothing to say, nothing to be, nothing to desire.
The auto rickshaw moves away.
The girl selling the roses is going away.
It’s time to be a hardcore realist.
It’s time to smile through the tears.
It’s time to forget you exist.
