Category Archives: Delhi

The Confounding Nature of Infinite Spaces.

insideoutside

walls, doors, window frames,

cordoned graves,

humayun’s tomb

grand, untamed,

extends out to the edges

of Delhi’s constrained

infinities;

sandstone bathed

in blood and pain;

columns that seek to break

out from in between the teeth

the Sky keeps clenched

to not let the renegades

escape into his infinities.

 

Infinities within infinities—

histories within histories—

and I hide several within

which tremble at the strain

of those larger than themselves

whenever I visit

did I say where

Humayun’s tomb.

 

A testament to the reign

of the second in command

of those that had

the World prostrating in their trail;

a testament to the failed

grandeur of the name

that now lies crumpled on

pages of rewritten history;

a testament to dragged—

through—the—streets—

she—paved irony.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Love, Old And New.

The monuments that were so crafted to stand as witnesses to the beneficence 
and magnificence of the rulers that ruled over Delhi, for however long, have
become the favorite playgrounds of the young lovers of the city. If you walk
through Lodi Gardens, or Humayun's Tomb, at any time, even in the scorching 
heat of April, you're more likely to run into a couple whispering sweet 
nothings to each other, under the shade of a tree, than a tourist appreciating 
the meticulousness of the architectural wonders. This poem is in regard to 
the same idea and is, in parts, inspired from Ravish Kumar's absolutely 
delightful collection of nano-tales, 'Ishq mein Sheher Hona'.

I don’t understand Delhi.

Why do we come to buildings

The walls of which, reflect

The Sun, with a funerary gaze

And allow Amaltas to bloom

in their shades, like only

Planted to be displayed

On biers of glory

That doesn’t remain.

Leave the tombs

To the dead, and let us

Craft our own infinities

In squalid alleys that

Reek of sweat, spit and

Alcohol-laden morning breaths

That went to sleep, very late.

Come, let us build our own

Shrines of love, in between

The corporate rubble of

Gurgaon, and on the glass

And concrete inscribe our

Tales of gentle caresses

Stolen from this city

Of callous denizens,

And dreary dreams

[verses to match Khusrau’s]

somewhere under the

Moolchand Flyover.

Processed with VSCO with p5 preset

Kailash Colony, languidly reflecting the Sun on a Sunday morning.

 

Tagged , , , , , , ,