In The Veins Of Kathmandu

Nine A.M.
And the traffic thickens,
Like blood clotting up,
In the veins of Kathmandu.
A thousand lives slow down
And come to a halt
A thousand sighs rise up
Intermingle with the dust and smoke,
The air is grimy, and silent,
Only the low hum of an engine tries to break it.
It takes a while to notice the people:
The Khalaasi protruding from the side of the bus,
Holding on with one hand,
The other, clutching his bundle of cash.
The woman riding pillion,
Cradling her child with one hand,
The other, clutching her husband’s shirt.
The shabby Rickshaw driver,
With his feet suspended above ground,
One in front
Of the other, even in rest.
The middle-aged officer,
A bit too big for his motorcycle,
One hand to keep it steady,
The other, adjusting his proud moustache.
The three college girls in the last seat,
Two waiting to burst into laughter and chatter,
The other, feeling out of place.
The little kid on the footpath,
Still learning to navigate the streets,
Looking on with intent and wonder
At the other, side of the road.
A congregation of a thousand worlds:
Happy and sad,
Big and small,
Fast and slow,
Intermingle
with each
Other.
Nine Fifteen.
Engines come to life,
Lives resume,
Blood flows,
In the veins of Kathmandu.
