The warm sweat of late morning clings to thin cotton
While the peaceful serenity infuses your humbled being
In the company of the ancient remains of Hauz Khas
A stony labyrinth of dank quarters overrun with nature
Where you feel a part of time, a part of existence

Secluded from the popular bustle inside the Red Fort
Or the lure of Shah Jahan’s intricate epiphany in white
The screaming streets flowing tightly around a dull cow
Or the shrill chatter as autoricks squeeze between taxis
Like streams of fleeting anchovies darting over one another

It is a land of bitter-sweet contrasts:

The perfection of a shared moonlit night in Lodi gardens
	The wretched poverty and suffusing decay
The splashes of vibrant color in elegant saris and bindi dies
	The mutilated children clamoring for pitiful rupees

The wondrous history, ancient temples, and forgotten cities
	The sea of bodies lying in stations like beached salmon
Bulbous breasted women carved into Khajaraho temples
	And the reek of death floating on the sacred Ganges

The intensity affects you more than any other
As though the veil of artificiality has been lifted
From the world
And you can feel the truth of it all underneath.