A WALKER IN THE CITY.

           

I walked up and down

These city streets

Where the gates opened selectively

And you need passports

And visas that your skin or attire

Would provide

You do not own a surname

And Public art is all about pedigrees

And surnames that make things

Politically correct

And which you could not possess

A man of the streets

Shabby or drunk

Or keeping bad company.

 

Sometimes you sit beside

Bilgraami at the door

Of the Ghalib library

An old man with a green cloth

On his knees

Someone who had been in Mumbai

And now sleeps in a public shelter

After the movies had left him in God’s hands

A man who silently impresses

And is one to count on.

The street to the Durgah is at times crowded

Folks selling flowers

Believers from all corners

Remembering the prophet

And the hard times that they live in.

The couple at the street end

Offering you a smoke

You miss her

And the gentle presence

Some times in the yard of a monument

Nizamudeen is a song that draws in and enlivens

Just next to the opium eater

His eyes to the lord a beacon

Words waving in the wind

Where shaheen falcons

Circle and come to roost.

 

You have coffee

Exchange a few words

And sketch the portrait of a pilgrim from Lucknow

(the 'Luck' here is in the present)

Another from Bhopal or Orissa

Whiling away their time

In anticipation and penitence.

 

I meet with Illias with his broad smile

And helping hand

You wander about

A drawing is what you want to do

A place to sit and scribble

Looking for a park or bench

And some unobtrusive company.

The ‘saat patha’ trees are laughingly polite

Their Yakshis may have fallen asleep

After a heavy night.

 

 

You wander towards death

Resting in the cemeteries

In the night

Sketching the scattered darkness

Where the dead have found rest

The souls silently observing

A wayfarer of curious thoughts.

What does it mean to sleep

Under the stars?

 

They had dates to sell

Scents or surumai to line your eyes

Little trinklets of every kind

Books or tea

I sit down in tea shop

And takes in a nice view

The lady there is helpful

My snobbery and intrusiveness

May have disturbed

Someone else

Sometimes friends grow scarce

And politely distant

And I return to where I stay

With my friend

The Metro leads you there

But you have to take the correct entrance.

 

 

   

Jaggu. Jayasankar , Lokesh. Kaushal ,Shankar or Levin

Pays a visit to Sreedevi , Shabeer,Sudheesh, Anpu ,Vidya

(The names are many)

or Parul at their places

Working with adversities

Or for the friendly drink at another’s.

 

At Qutub minar the Ashokan pillar

And a memorial that signifies the unseen presence

In grand style and a friendly companion

Dancing her way in and disappears thereafter.

The doors to the close friends room

Remain closed- I don’t want to interpret it

Such is a wanderers fate.

The servant woman with her scars of deep burns

The fruit-seller looking  hopefully

The rickshaw walah to whom 

For no reason

A friend is rude and irreverent

And the wine shop at the end of the trip.

 

I take two sweetened Afghani nans for dinner

A soft and cheap affair, refreshing

And the smile of the seller that remains with you

As he hands over the stuff.

 

I have walked this city

Up and down

With  empty pockets

That were yet so full

 And a healthy walk

Easing the pain of being.