The
train dropped me at Nizamuddin,
The
breath of the city drank my soul,
I am
here to find my beloved Dilli,
In this
scorching heat, away from Simla’s cool,
Trades
and traders, merchants galore,
The
jingling of coins same as sweet Bombay,
Not
coins, but, I am here to hear the azaan,
It
soothes all senses, I heard them say,
The
huge buildings fascinate me not,
Come
on! It’s Bombay from where I am!
I am
here to see the lowly temples,
Here to
taste chaat, not burgers with ham,
I see
all people busy with themselves,
Where
is the Dilli of famed graciousness?
I see a
modern city, but not the old towns,
That
had the mighty Mughals obsessed,
From
Balli Maran to Kucha Chelaan,
From
Chandni Chowk to Dariba Kalan,
I
roamed all around and in the end,
The
emergence of a thought begun,
O where
is that place where history lives?
Is it
lost in the crowd of urban craze?
What
cruel people have eaten it?
The
Dilli, still in my memory unfazed.
Where
is the Dilli Zauq couldn’t leave?
The
Dilli that Zafar and Ghalib visit,
Lost in
the race, that sweet old wine,
Has
lost its taste, retains lesser spirit.
No comments:
Post a Comment