At the end of September the capital was still warm, a few spells of untimely showers brought down temperatures and brought up mosquito numbers. I didn’t mind much. The clear skies meant that I could watch godly winged whales descend from the heavens every morning one after the other, growing in scale before disappearing into the tree-line. I could, until it all got obscured by the mustard mist. My eyes watered but this usual missing of the whales was interrupted. I found myself in the belly of the pink boa, among the rest of the fodder, undergoing the process of slow yet sure digestion. Making sure to put up a fight, I read and made sufficient marks on my books. To camouflage in here one needs checked formals ironed crisp, backpack on the shoulder, a pair of earbuds— whispering/ screaming/ vomiting news/ episodes/ music, a neck affixed at an angle fixated on the old loyal thumb not weary yet, having swiped away kilometers already.

The city breathes, it gasps, it bends under the constant stress and the strain; the more it gets stretched thin, the more it makes people claw and bite at the rim. The march goes on, with a skip on Saturdays and a drag on Mondays— the boots resonate over chatter.