At the end of the corridor

It stands caught between two doors,
The dustbin around my corner.
Pregnant with garbage,
Stationed at the corridor end
Of this girl’s hostel.
To its left are the toilets.
To its right is the room of preeti and nupur.

At midnight, the dogs come to thrust their teeth in.
They invade its belly. They drag out entrails.
Among the rubbish, is a plastic bowl-
Bikaneri Namkeenwala, Ambala stamped on it.
It contains remnants of a pickle
Lingering on its bottom like bloodied slime.
And over it, a dog runs its runny tongue,
Licks up the red oil.

The bin is tipped over, its night-old contents spill out.
The dogs forage-bite the stale parantha,
Sniff through the plastic bags, run away,
Hunt through other bins, assault, mutilate.

In the morning, didiji gathers its aborted mess,
Stuffs them into bags, puts them at the bottom of the stairs.
The bags huddle together like illegal migrants waiting in transit.
They will soon be disposed in a wheelbarrow.
Every morning I walk past them on the way to breakfast.

Now that the bin is emptied of its life,
Didiji swirls its insides with water,
Wipes clean its cover in the sink.
Then back it is to the corridor end.
Soon, a girl will come,
To throw away rotten breakfast,
Sanitary napkin covers
shampoo bottles, papers, wrappers.