Cutting, they call it

That far-from-tea bubbling away on footpaths

all day and night

The over cooked narcotic of a toothless people

Sweet and cheap, drunk and forgotten

A meaningless pause in the futile day of a

purposeless existence

When seen through the steam from a five-buck

cup of cutting

The city wavers like a mirage

There are no trees lining the roads

There is no administration to fix the potholes

No one is in power, no one in control

When seen through the steam from a five-buck

cup of cutting

The future flaps around like a headless chicken

Spraying out iPods and hi-speed petrol

The faster you drink, the quicker it goes

Leaving you contemplating the tea dust at the bottom

of your white plastic cup

Altaf Tyrewala, Ministry of Hurt Sentiments, 2012, Fourth Estate, New Delhi