Connaught Place

Concrete buildings split open—
all four walls falling,
like the flaps of a gift box.

Inside: a tulip garden,
impossibly red.
Dust rises in little rings
around your ankles.

The city forgets her name
for a minute.
No sirens, no scaffolding.
Just pigeons blinking
like they’ve seen God's feet.

You say something small
I forget what—
but it makes the mannequins
press their palms to the glass.

You know who you are, baby.
Someone drops to the dust.
A billboard turns dervish.

You touch me once—
This whole world is a holy ground.

Saumya is a student of history at LSR and a hoarder of metaphors. Her work is often based on personal experiences but she likes to paint them in a more political and cosmic fashion when writing. That is her coping mechanism but she obviously likes to call it, 'rituals of survival'.