Blue Shirt Man

Raindrops gathered on my nose like a piercing.
It was that just awake, yawning Delhi rain
Leaving me not quite wet not quite dry.

I am quite honestly lost in these gullies
Rain has that faraway-look-in-my-eye quality
It scoops out my soul and scatters it in the dirt.

Swanky house Block C Swanky house Block B
I am looking for a similarly swanky Block A house
But I linger, waiting to actually feel the drop drop. 

A single silvery pearl cascades down my shirt
Hitting my dry chest like a bullet, but softer
This rain has stories to tell, I thought.

I pass a construction site, golden and damp
A blue shirt man squats on his haunches
His muscles ripple from the bricks he has laid.

I taste sweat and fresh rain on my tongue
I hear mud squelch and rise around my shoes
He watches me, safe under the roof he built.

Past working hours, post chai and gossip
This roof he built is more solid than his home
This roof he prefers, but can’t afford to own.



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