The Whore and the hijra
They shared a seat
In the early morning bus.
Going back after a night of tired work.
They were both speaking animatedly.
Friends meeting after so long,
Grabbing, savouring that moment of respite
After the labour of the night.
The Hijra wore cheap gold-plated ornaments
They dangled against her glistening, black skin.
The whore looked dishevelled.
She was not more than twenty.
They must both have blotted out from memory
That previous night of desparate gropings
Where time sucked rhythmically
Their youth away.
That night...
Like any other night...
Of sweat, labour, police whistles
And hard-earned coins.
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