Do not go gentle into that 
good night.
Rage, rage against the dying 
of the light.
— Dylan Thomas

They doze in bulldozers
Mumbai. Maximum city,
maximum city minimised.
Mumbai, city of dreams. 
Mumbai, city of seven islands.
Mumbai, the city of one million broken roads, 
city of seven million potholes,
city of thousands of protruding pipes and iron bars.
Where once were roads, are now rods. 
Shady by-lanes, leafy street corners, pretty side-walks, majestic stone pavements, once the character of this great city,
now lie buried in heaps of rubble.
Cement roads now resemble cemeteries,
dug, destroyed, damaged, desecrated. 
Where we once walked, we now navigate, with extreme caution,
while they doze in their bulldozers,
those yellow submarines, unearthing land
excavating, eliminating, 
ejecting, 
Destroying countless memories,
terminating our walks, our jogs, our runs, our sprints, our sauntering,
and we bystanders, onlookers, residents, stakeholders, citizens.
Us. What of us? 
Are we seething inside?
Itching to take to the streets? In protest?
But unable, because of inertia.
Has our rage morphed into an acceptance?
Or has indifference pervaded our DNA?