By Dipika Kohli
Northwest Asian Weekly
The dogs are yapping, the breeze is crusted over with exhaust, the bicycles and” tuk tuks” and whistles from the rush-hour police at intersections are watching every which way to make sure the pedestrians, trucks, people walking their carts in search of cans and bottles, side shops for clothes and haircuts or whole chickens (headless, roasting) turning round and round on sticks, juice stalls on motorbikes, the motorbikes themselves, “push” bikes which are bicycles and… wait, did I say that?
Yes. I did. I worry most about the cycles. Especially when I’m on one.
The sound is one of evening.
The mood is hot and relief. I made it. I did not get run over today. I am home. The French doors are half open, just the left side, for the flow is too ferocious if it’s this hour and the sound is too loud. Not that it will carry, not all the way across this marble tile floor through the bedroom or beyond, the stairwell, and swirl right back downstairs and out onto the street. Where it started. The circular flow, in the motion, vehicular merging and disengaging and whoa that was a close one and here we are all people-moving. Us and our people-mover things.
This is the quietest it will be for this hour. This is Street 63. (end)
Dipika Kohli can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.