The bustling mini-town,
of men and women at work,
and of joyous children,
playful with puppies,
carrying them around,
teasing them, and then
escaping them.
Of the gatekeepers,
and their shifts,
mingling with the town, and then
phone-sleeping on the cart.
Of the vegetable vendor,
wooing the near-empty pockets.
Of the contractor,
managing the labour,
gathering them, early morning
for the next sweat.
Of the men,
rushing in the morning,
with their tiffins,
rambling in the evenings,
ambling at the weekends,
gambling in the nights,
before sleeping,
content,
in columns,
under the uncertain skies.
Of the women,
with their early morning rituals,
at the earliest,
the common lavatories,
and later, their orange jackets,
packed in the vehicle,
towards the construction site,
kids wailing at mums going way,
until the evenings,
at the choolah,
gossips on the weekends,
in narrow lanes between the sheds.
Birds gliding across,
the scene of the sheds,
numerous pigeons,
quarrelsome crows,
chirpy polyglot mynas,
chilled out dove,
and the happiest one,
sparrow-sized brown bird,
yet un-named in my mind,
rising and gliding,
with the wind,
its best friend.
But then,
it happened.
When birds were left alone,
with dogs,
and the sole watchman.
Labourers,
began walking,
the long empty roads,
leaving the sweltering sheds,
sites, turned dead,
for hometowns,
some grew even thinner,
while some perished.
The vocal netizens,
their online sympathy,
while workers dragged slowly,
passing by their homes.
The restless civil society,
the stretched administration,
the frontline khaki,
and the self-less white-coats.
Until now,
when the chains are gone,
the movement is free,
the sheds are bustling,
tirelessly building the skyscrapers,
for the ones,
including this one,
who'll forget them again,
once the job is done.
