Shoeshine Timmy sits outside
the Charminar polishing shoes.
I wonder where he learned to
speak such fluent English
and why he insists on using
an Anglicised name.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s
even real or just a figment
of my imagination made real
because I dread meeting
relatives at the wedding
reception I have to attend tonight.
Maybe Timmy’s my creative
impetus personified because
I’m running out of things to say
as the hour approaches when
I have to meet a huge gathering
of people and answer when
they ask me what I’m doing
with my life. The old faces now
older with bloodshot
eyes, pornstaches and crooked
teeth merge to form a monstrosity
straight out of the Bayonetta series,
but there’s Timmy in the corner
polishing shoes. He doesn’t tell
me I’ve distanced myself from
my culture, or have forsaken
religion, doesn’t hate or
sneer or criticise or look smugly
while I stumble
over my words, the sentences
forming vortexes which sweep
me away, toss me about,
slam me against walls that
separate life from death.
“You must try the fruit salad
in that shop.
It’s one of the best things
to eat in Hyderabad,” says Timmy
as he polishes
my shoes while the demon approaches
with five wings and eight ears.
“They never accepted
my friend requests and I hope
they don’t out me
as being mentally ill,” I reply,
but Timmy only says, “You know,
there was a fountain
here with links of white gold.
They didn’t realise it was gold
until the Nawab’s descendant
read about it somewhere
and took the chains away
in the middle of the night,
claiming what was rightfully his,”
and whistles and dusts my shoes.
Ordinary Person 
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