Above me, a few scattered clouds crawl slowly across the blue haze.
The glaring summer sun scorching my skin,
hanging,
suspended in time.
Below, vendors stop and shout incomprehensible words
on their way down the road,
as the smell of roasting peanuts waft up from their carts.
Scooters, bicycles and cows
send dust clouds flying into people's eyes.
A few stray, filthy beggars and one-eared  dogs wander,
pleading for God's mercy and a few paisa;
they are equals: homeless and hungry.
People are hanging laundry on their roofs across the road.
Elderly people sweep back and forth gently on long wide swings,
like pendulums,
steady and dependable.
The heavy afternoon air makes my clothes cling to me.
This is where I belong.