The rule does not go away. Not too often. When we say it, they leer and jeer. They then go and break it.
The city is the way it is. And we do not say a word.
It is the way things work here. The bus man, the porter and auto man will tell you. The lady next door, who makes extra cake for you, will say. The guard, the bhaiyya, the bai, the dhobi, and the man in the lift; they are the city.
Was it like this before? No one knows. But this is how we are now.
This is how it will be for some more time. My city is tied to these million men. It does not know if it should march ahead.
It belongs to those in the high rise flat and to those in the slum. It will not be able to take more men.
It is in a race, a chase to be on top. It grows like a giant tree, with needy plants on its bark. It gives in to the men who come and go and stands what they do to it. It does not know where to go.
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