before we rustle out of our beds
the rooster cuckoos the world awake
light nimble feet, turn into stomping soldiers speedily
in the shush of a bright morning
the milkman traverses through our ‘pada’
his cycle crunching through the unrepaired, gravel-y gullies
the clanking spoon in my mug
as i slurp my first cup of tea
the egg sizzles and whirls itself into an omelette as i pour it in the pan
i honk and i drive by
the splashing water from the municipal taps
and the fluttering flock of birds
the thumping of a hundred tiny girls
amongst beeps and vrooms of vans and buses. i hear
murmuring and giggles, as my daughter walks into the school
if there were no words
stories would still drip from every corner
buzzing and crackling like radio channels
sometimes barking, sometimes just whooshing by.
hear the lub-dub of the heart, the rattle of the souls
hear the sputter of the city, as if were words no more.
By Swastika Dasgupta
Swastika is a student of Symbiosis School of Liberal Arts, majoring in International Relations and minoring in Anthropology. She was the secretary of the poetry club, It Could Be Verse and is qualified in cracking puns at the wrong time. She is always enveloped in poetry, dance, music and theatre, with a keen interest in learning about cultures. Being half bong-half gujju, she loves to eat and loves to feed.