Our city astonishes by its love of water and mud. If there is too much silt in drains we use machines but only men if it is not too deep below the earth.
We love drains because we have no space for men on the earth’s surface or in the swift rivers of water when it flows in monsoon over pot-holed roads and sidewalks, fallen umbrellas, open manholes.They make such fine swirls in the rivers on roads.
The men come because the land refuses to budge.The rain-clouds refuse to yield water from their hills.Greedy men of dark mustaches have now taken their lands over glasses of buttermilk made from well-fed buffaloes.
They are now hung precariously on bamboo scaffolds and glisten with drops of sweat on their dark bodies.Their women knead breads in canvas tents on the road.
We build our city on the mangled remains of hills. Our lakes are the wet dreams of pot-bellied realtors.We now make fine holes in sky-space for our people so they can dry clothes in balconies high enough in the sky and they will flutter like colorful flags in the wind.