A Walk Through Chandni Chowk

A cornucopia of scents assail:
puris frying in hot oil,
rotting garbage,
incense and flowers,
exhaust fumes and hot metal,
beedi smoke,
and the unmistakable presence
of a public convenience.

From the Jama Masjid, the mullah
reiterates, for the third time,
his summons to the faithful.
A legless beggar wheels by:
did the treasure he stole from angry gods
warrant this Promethean reward?
Temple bells ring,
and the crowds surge unceasingly.

Psychedelic visions appear:
Toby jugs that live;
saffron headware crowns,
shading eyes that view
far different horizons.
Ancient gods walk the land,
indifferent to the caste
of their weary avatars.

Pondering, in the shadow
of the Red Fort,
the hubris of those who sought
to civilize the land
where the Bo-shaded Gautama
attained Nirvana long ago:
where a lover's tribute became
a wonder of the world.