This city weeps ambers, spewing fire
and fatigue all around its girth on children dancing, swallowing, slowly fire,
burning mosques, raping government building, wearing their wary eyes thin with tears
for their lost mothers.
Old saintly street lamps pondering
over busy streets going straight not looking right or left where you just crash
into a wall and set up a tent, crying and claiming prophecies, at night bright
with ideas, but all alone.
Absconding, in beds bunkers boxes
hiding and running emotions on roads scared screaming for azadi and revolutions
in the name of holy Marx and mother of gods, forgetting to shave pubes and to
pee before a crammed fuck, all the while remembering a lover no longer there.
Weather violating rational logic
coming down in buckets otherwise empty in anticipation or from a heat stroke, but not like blue Stuti's face, freckled from men who forgot umbrellas or
condoms or jackets or raincoats or promises or passions or wore tuxedos instead
when she rained.
From
Parliament street to Akshardham, burning gasoline. From the tombs of Mughals to
libraries of Ambedkar and Gandhi, burning gasoline. Through Connaught place via
Africa Avenue, burning gasoline. From the erection of Aibak to the cunt of Lutyen,
burning gasoline. From the menacing malls of NCR to the dull shops smelling of
kerosene in Khirki village, burning gasoline. From central dilli to trans
Yamuna, burning gasoline. On flyovers, in DDA colonies, around parks, through
take-aways and 24*7s burning gasoline. Burning gasoline through the night,
through dusk, dawn and after noon, when no one, no one can tell you where is it
that you have to go.
Believers in Burger King and Baba
Ramdev's brand of spiritual maggi noodles and enlightened Fast Moving Consumer
Goods, hogging women and children and men and transsexuals in the name of rape
and god, feeding flocks to fractal factories of moksha and cosmos.
Mandir of Ram and mosques of
Mohammed distributing ideological weapons to legitimize wars and Churches of
Christ crooning compassion for a token fee of faith and land like advance
booking realtors of heavenly studio apartments, pimping angelic nymphs by
dozens, conquering minds but, defeating humans.
Pill popping virgins and motherly
rapists of baby girls, depraved decayed daddies of doing democracy and
development from behind all the while, talking of the Divine Grace and the art
of breathing in and out during intercourse, to prevent ejaculation before
everything is done.
Smoking marijuana and popping LSD,
lost in the labyrinth of mystic knowledge and psychedelic trance, rambling of
post-modern, post-fathom, post-rock and post prior to present or past, munching
munches, moving to moves and elating to grey bearded saintly stoners till the
last pass, and then having trouble coping with reality.
People moving around central, markets
munching momos mortified mothers mumbling, magical threats to their kids,
waging war for Pokémon or attention, in gas stations, for renewing vigor past
the weekend.
Rushing from home to office, and
rushing to rush back again after having rushed back home, on a Monday, on a
Tuesday, on a Wednesday, on a Thursday, on a Friday, on a Saturday, even though
it was supposed to be an off, be a date, be a dinner, be a drinker or whatever
the fuck.
In Hauz Khas village, smoking cigarettes. In Palam Vihar, smoking
cigarettes. On Anand parbat, smoking cigarettes. From metro stations to meeting
places, smoking cigarettes. From orgasm to foreplay, smoking cigarettes. From protests
to police stations, smoking cigarettes. Getting bored, smoking cigarettes.
Waiting to smoke, smoking cigarettes. Behind my mother's back, smoking
cigarettes. In the morning, trying to take a dump, smoking cigarettes. From his
lips to mine, smoking cigarettes. From her lips to mine, smoking cigarettes. Smoking cigarettes and just smoking
cigarettes.
Dear
followers of Heraclitus, your city, doused in melancholy, is a dead museum of
memories, surviving between living and dying, remembering the lonesome Pandavas,
the experimenting Tughlaqs, the raids of Taimur, the songs of sufis, the taste
of freedom and the pillage for Gandhi.
Dear
followers of Prince Siddhartha, your city, this Sisyphus of your history,
insomniac and stoic, forever placed under an eternal Bodhi tree, runs on a
convenient and quasi slacker doctrine of Madhyam marg.
Dear
disciples of mystic spirituality mixed with a pinch of rationality, your city
is dying, your city is pleading, your city, this colossal monument in the history
of your frail memory, is begging you, is asking for just two words,
peace
and harmony,
peace and harmony,
peace and harmony...
This poem was published in Cafe Dissensus.
