Bus Ride to Char Minar

Cramped in a corner
I ride a bus to Char Minar.
Bursting bodies press on me
as strangeness begs familiarity
in sharing a hard, narrow seat.

I feel the soft, wrinkled skin
of an old Hyderabadi begum
leaning to the window for fresh air,
gasping curses on Allah for her plight.

The mother with child at her breast
squats near my feet, quite content.
Two little dirty hands tug innocently
the edge of my crumpled shawl.

Before I mingle again
in the crowd of Char Minar,
two sunken eyes offer me
eternity in a begging bowl,
promising me a reserved seat
in the crowded bus to heaven
provided I pay the commission.