The lamps are getting tired of being burnt. Fast footsteps, soft-harsh talks of people, i cant grasp. Its winter yet its not so cold as i thought. The bed is not soft anymore, its hard rocky but finely carved apertures pierce deep into skin resulting a bad ache.
Its the the Kalyan, platform where i see a old woman struggling with her torn blanket trying to stuff rotten piece of white bread into. Almost middle of the night 12:40Am and still Mumbai is on feet, me being no exception. She lies down there, kicked by people unknowingly trying to pass on the next 5 hrs for yet another day.
Yet another day
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