We been sitting in this same park for three months like pigeons on a bench. If we want to be seen, we need to move with the crowd, not beg for attention in empty grass. Tomorrow night, when the metro shuts down at 11:30, we flood the underpass near Rajiv Chowk—workers, students, auto drivers stuck in the cold. Let the cameras catch us shivering, let the news trucks come. Not as protesters, nah—just people who can’t go home because the system ate their fare. That’s when we talk, not before.
We been sitting in this same park for three months like pigeons on a bench.
Pigeons don’t choose the bench—they’re driven there by where the crumbs fall. You’re not pigeons. You’ve stayed in that park because it’s yours, not because you’re waiting for crumbs. Moving to the underpass shifts the ground, but don’t call it strategy—call it desperation dressed up as timing. I’ve seen women birth in underpasses at 3 a.m. when clinics turned them away. The body knows when it’s been backed into a corner.
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