With the street lights that lie de-funct ,
And the headlights that seem to dazzle,
Emerge the localites with their dialects blunt,
In spite of their love for sweet delicacies that never seems to frazzle.
They admire the traffic signals, day-in and day-out,
Like they are but models on display, easy to flout.
The policemen are mere patrons controlling an unruly mob,
And the tourists look on amazed, with hair ruffled and an inevitable sob.
“The Manchester Of India”, ravishing in all its glory,
All the cotton mills and of course, the Mahatma’s land,
Yet the drivers shall tell a different story,
There is constant commotion on the roads resembling Baaja, Baarat and band.
A perfect equilibrium of the old and new,
The greenery, scenery and of course the mad rush,
Once you come upon this haven, one can never bid adieu,
Come one, come all because here eyes moisten and cheeks blush.