Like a venomous snake, 

I turn and bend

carrying the dark sewer in my veins

people think I am but a drain.

They fear me, despise me

stare amused while stranded in traffic

or in the metro cars passing on the bridges over me

and are repulsed by the stench that owns me.

May be the farmers ploughing their lands

and the cattle who feed on the grass

off the fields along my banks

think a little more of me.

But people see my might

when it rains, 

as the heavens pour their hearts out

and I erupt in a dance of joy.

I am full and lithe, 

and soon I am unshackled, unrestrained

I am power, I am energy, raw

I devour my own decay.

But people fear me, despise me

stare amused while stranded in traffic

or in the metro cars passing on the bridges over me

pity, that to know me as a river that I once must have been,

people have to only witness me in spate.

“It is a difficult poem

that the fakir sings”

Nagma lay under the shade 

of the Neem tree, as she thought.

“The fakir sings of God,

love, affection and care

but wait, are these things of this world?

or of the land where God lives?”

Nagma was born in a tempest

and grew up with a fate macabre

her mother hated her for being a girl

though there was no father she could call her own.

The factory owner gave her a job

gave her money, some lipstick

a few dresses and some jewellery

but robbed her of herself.

Nagma fought hard,

and she continued working

but the villagers she called family and kin

said she was the culprit of her own fate.

The Khap disowned her

and pronounced that she must forsake the village

lest she pollute other impressionable minds

she should flee, or suffer the cost of disobey.

A world other than her village

was something she thought she never needed to know

her village was good enough a dreamland

where she wanted to start a family she could call her own .

Yet, Nagma, was all of fifteen

when she set her foot on the highway 

and hailed a lift to the town 

with big lights and fancy sights.

She found herself in Sarai Kale Khan

amidst a caravan of people

all travellers from somewhere to someplace else

some,perhaps, in search of themselves.

She found a job in a small tailor shop

where she could stitch her life together

like an applique of her memories, happy and sad

and make a living on the rug of her hardwork.

“Aapa, masterjee has called for you,

come on, it is getting late”

Nagma suddenly wakes up from the siesta 

as Shaheen calls her from across the road.

The fakir is still singing praises 

in the lord’s name, as a lazy afternoon sun 

tans Sarai Kale Khanwith a divine glow

of faith and hope.

Aai* sits in the chair, in the alley beside the garage

sometimes, in the garden

that faces the main gate

I always see her smiling as she waits

for us to arrive at the gate

this is a ritual that happens always

the grey hair now turning white

the black of it long gone

of the long flowing black hair

that once it was.

The old chandan tree smiles in the mild wind

and the champa flowers carpet the road in front of her

while the occasional langur leaps out in mad joy,

as street mongrels wrestle it out in the sand heap on the road outside

the chaatwala starts out from his home, 

full of colour, food, and happiness

and the cotton candy man chimes his bell out aloud

Aai sits taking it all in

as much as her eyes allow her to see

for the rest, she turns to nostalgia

the memories of things like they used to be.

When Aja was around

he would also be out making his rounds

around and about the campus

on most days, stepping out to 

buy samosas, vegetable chops and sandesh

from the small store that called itself, ‘the ‘bangalidokaan’

small, tiny samosas, and small beetroot color chops

which packed a deluge of flavours in them

and pulled in connoisseurs from one end of the town to another

Aai would sit then, too

for Aja to return, armed with the battery of paper packs

stashed with food, ration and love.

Then Aai was younger, and had energy

but now she is old, though not frail and weak

we often ask her, why she sat braving the heat and rain

“don’t the mosquitoes bother you

or the dust fill your lungs?

doesn’t the drudgery of waiting 

bother you, bore you and irritate you?”

but she says it gives her pleasure

to see us come back

each time, all the time

like a bird tracing back its day’s endto its nest

she says she feels alive

and comforted by the fact that we are all together once again

back to samosas, pakodas, chutney and tea

and the aroma of a family brew.

The old ancestral house was it’s muse

as it coquettishly grew through its nooks

it held the old walls in an embrace

of deep love, and selfless care

it fed on the delectable memories

of Sunday brunches, and evening savouries.

It grew taut, and strong

relishing on the familial bonds

the ancient temple in the courtyard

that was there before the first brick of this house was laid

had been the room of the family’s presiding deities

who surely seemed to like

the air intoxicated by its warm herbage.

The grapevine threw branches all around

like the kids of the daughters and sons

frolicking and monkeying around

the grape bunches came as blessings

and they packed flavours, sweet and tangy

the recipe of love founds its way

spicing the grapes into a chutney,of love and happiness.

Holy ceremonies, and weddings

were all under its holy shade

like a mother, it lay protecting the commune

but the winter winds of despair

they descended, like vultures, with ominous glares

like a cloudburst, the demon of discord came.

The gnawing pain of partition divided the warm dwelling place

butchering the filial affection 

that had held them strong in heat and gail

the grapevine wilted and faded

in this fury flood of pain

the shade that once protected them all

shed its foliage, like drops of rain.

There is no grapevine today

the courtyard is parched and bare

there are no occasions of joy to celebrate

the ancestral house weeps, lamenting at what remains

the gods seem to have abandoned their courtyard room

what curse has befallen the place?

* The poet recalls the grapevine that grew in his ancestral house, and how it was a central figure in the family’s life. Nostalgia paints his thoughts as he remembers how the courtyard was a joyous place for the family, as it flourished beneath the grapevine laden with fruits and leaves. And how the subsequent partition of the property led to the slow death of the vine, and disaffection in the family.

Often I have wondered

what do I like about you?

I am not a Dilliwala

so do I know enough to have a say

I first came visiting you as a tourist

I came later, as a student

I kept coming back to you

like you were some addiction

that I found hard to give up.

I have seen the places that make you famous

Like, your date with history, the sultanates, and royalty

I have lived, even though in parts and bits

to see what makes you infamous too

the air, the automobile, and the haze

the very base in which life sustains

is polluted, dark and convoluted

what is there to like about you?

Often I have pondered

as I have waited for hours in 

serpentine traffic, soaked in the sweat

of irritation and humidity

though I have tried to make peace with all else

over plates of tikki chaat and chole bhaturey

I have reflected as the gullies of Chandni Chowk

have tantalised my gluttony — seducing me,

cajoling me with a reason to like you.

The other day at Dargah Hazrat Nizamuddin

I passed three kids, in wanton glee

no clothes intact on their frail bodies

bodies, a set of bones dangling, like a magician’s conjuring.

they played and clapped, a desi pup in hand

an ice candy in the other, they ran,

with smiles lighting up their cherubic faces

like sun peeping out of dark clouds after harsh rains

the sound of their laughter spoke 

like the azaan from the mosque next door

and they jumped and frolicked

without the slightest care for the world

The warm caress of love on them

That you embalmed like a nurturing parent

Bared your heart to me, as I kept soaking in 

This sight of unadulterated innocence and peace

That and many such moments whisper to me

As an endless effervescence of romance that endears your essence to me

I may not be a Diliwala yet, 

But I do know enough to say

That your rise, and raise despite what you are made out to be.