Going home

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda,
The rasping of nylon streamers against fly racquets,
Chinese toys beating about before the vendor quickly bundles up and flees,
Jasmine garlands and incense-stick boxes
Sharing space with severed goats' heads
Their eyes staring glassily at you to match your startled glance,
The smell of fried flour and potatoes,
And of withering cabbage stalks,
Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot,
Sweat - anxious sweat - whiffing by on hurried steps,
And a quickly muttered apology on pushing you out of the way,
Mysore masala dosas frying on a street griddle
All beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes,
A promise of naked women in usb drives,
And hard-bodied nude males promising fairer skin from giant billboards,
Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes peering from a bier,
Suburban lifeforms in their TV-equipped habitats not peering out of lit windows;
And I - I just go home, as everyday.