I'd rather be here..

No,

I can't stand the stares,

At my attire,

At my mobile phone,

At my clumsiness with which I dig into a slice of jackfruit,

At the odd way in which I have draped my dhoti...

I can't stand it,

When your women giggle at me,

With the back of their palms pressed against their lips...

I can't stand it,

When your men cheat me off ten rupees,

And put that fake innocence on their faces,

And act concerned when they ask, scratching the back of their heads,

"Are you finding everything fine here, sir?"

I'd rather prefer,

to be here,

in my dusty, dirty, immoral city,

which, by night,

would pull me in,

seduce me,

under the cloak of

its pure, orgasmic anonymity.