Noida dreaming.

[Photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

There is Okhla. Then there is the New Okhla Industrial Development Authority… we call it Noida! This Yamuna-paar land of dreamy towers (see photo) stretches greatly to Greater Noida. Its landscape marked by names like Sector 18 and Sector 62, poetic to those finding poetry in numbers. Indeed, the most poetically named place in the Delhi region may well be Noida’s Pari Chowk, the Intersection of Fairies. In this same spirit, dear reader, say hello to Delhi-based poet Jonaki Ray, who has written a poem (exclusively for us!) about her daily commute to her day-job den in Noida.

Of New Industries and Old Dreams

Once, long ago, I had woken up early to watch birds nesting near the border.
Crossing over from the Delhi-Noida-Delhi expressway, entering a creeper-laden gate
had led me into a Narnia-like world. Mud-spattered non-roads waited,
as if to lure you, and the trees bent like brooding old men,
talking to each other about their yesteryears.

Walking on until hitting a subsidiary creek, all that could be seen
were reeds, barbets, and ducks. A friend claimed a holy man lived
on an island amidst the reeds, but there were no signs of any humans,
apart from the distant honking of cars.

Today, that gate and that world seem like a half-forgotten dream.
Every day, I go to the region which is compared to Delhi just like the river I cross,
Yamuna is compared to her sister, Ganga—never quite equal.
Along the way:
A man walking, looking up at signs
A group of cyclists in neon shorts and helmets
A troupe playing drums while a girl balances on a rope
Highways that resemble camel-backs.
Houses that look like they sprung up like weeds
One with a half-built roof, with a man watering a tulsi plant
A petrol pump with a martyred soldier’s photo guarding it
A fork on the road, with a woman praying to the stump of a tree
A mazar with an automobile manufacturer company facing it
A perpetually, almost finished bridge, with traffic merging from both sides,
Labourers walking and cycling along the naala beneath it,
Metro-goers hopscotching down from the walkways,
Half-inside-and-half-outside students clinging to the seats of autos and e-rickshaws,
Traffic cops ignoring the chaos and having their morning chai
Office-goers fishing out their corporate IDs like unleashed swords, swipe-ready

Some days, I catch sight of a young, wiry man
weaving in and out of the crowd, wearing saffron robes,
sometimes bowing to an invisible god,
other times marching straight ahead.
I like to think it is that man
from the long-ago island amidst the reeds,
but my thoughts are interrupted by the traffic lights changing,
and like everyone else, I move on.