India pulsate in its villages,
That has spirited bohemian winds,
Thick with chaff dust,
And mixed with the fragrance of nostalgic blends.
Roads naked sans tarred modernity,
Coiling and recoiling in the distance,
On its sides lives shadows of all kinds,
Of people, poultry, and gods.
Rivers carry the burden,
In its arteries and veins,
Of discarded and dead,
Along with lives throbbing in it,
With separate heartbeats.