Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

In lanes too narrow 

for three to walk abreast, 

that only peddlers 

with goods to sell 

from upright bicycles enter, 

are modest houses, 

modest only in name, 

behind whose barred windows, 

ornamental gates, 

the spikes along the top 

painted black and gold, 

live family men who can 

wiggle their fiery 

bellies at will. 

You see them 

in Gandhi Park, 

on opposite benches, 

practising their skills, 

a smokescreen 

of laughter 

hiding their faces. 

They move in a pack 

and eat sprouts 

on the way out. 

Mistimed 

badminton shots 

exploding around him, 

a metal soldier 

with assault rifle 

stands guard 

and a musical fountain 

plays fountain music 

in the background.