this city is a palimpsest. all texture. peeling into self. layer upon layer upon layer. language and skin and dust and polythene waste and political graffiti, pan stains and rickshaw poetry, chai shops and cigarette butts, aunties in flip flops, families squeezed onto motorcycles, english in urdu and urdu in angrezi, traffic uncles maddeningly ushering sluggish traffic across, “these bloody motorcycle wallay!”, “baji dupatta samhalain!”, jasmine bracelets at traffic lights, khawaja sira clapping, a perfect pyramid of yellow mangoes, fruit sellers swatting flies, jamun and cheekoo and falsay and sugarcane juice, hot tandoori naan in foreign newspapers, a gutter overflowing, kites in the sky, tangle of cables swinging above, crows in the morning, painted walls and fading walls, dusty trees, sweat sun sea, noise evening breeze. this city, the sea breeze. this city, the sound.