Kasturi Jadhav

India

She is no lady. She doesn't smile politely and let you pass. She jostles you. Steps on your feet till they are raw and bleeding. She is a punch in the face from skinned knuckles. She stabs you repeatedly, when you are not looking. Crying children, beggars, brown oozes of shit and human stench. Barely restrained crowds, noise and rats in the garbage. Oil lamps in the slums, eunuchs and meat shops. Fisher women in the trains, cabs with stories and frail men pushing handcarts. She tears into herself and spills out her insides – nerve, sinew, blood. Every day. You can't side step her. You can't turn up your nose. You can't escape her. She maps out her way inside you.

thundering by
to a beggar's patriotic song
another day