Nizamuddin and Khusrau: A Journey Not Completed
I
Did the red gulmohar spring fully formed,
Out of some divine pressure cooker-
Some stress that overflew, the weight hit
The sky in a shocking spray of rage…
And the laughing crowds at Holi, what myth,
Did they commemorate? Leaving on the lanes
Of our block, a thousand pink and yellow kisses?
And to scale the very heights, the roof beneath my feet,
Your saree like a butterfly’s wing,
Flies over your green and mustard house.
II
Here lie my stepfathers,
Ashiq and maushuq,
Maushuq and ashiq,
Safely buried beneath a million roses,
The gold of a million springs,
Eternal hyperbole, my dearest,
Eternal love.
Where are the skeletons of love-
Hamida, Poora, Lajjo, Taro, Kammo,
Antoinette and Bertha, headless, and burnt;
How simple we are,
Safely dead.
Some took shelter with Waris Shah,
Some were in the wrong place,
At the wrong time, with wrong words on our lips,
We are all dead.
Most never found out,
That hope springs eternal in a suitable cup size.
Some were bad
All were sad,
Our skeletons have never known the rain.
Lying in your face,
How heavy we become in death,
Often they bury us,
We bring forth each season,
A bed of roses,
Stinking forever.
Illustration : Sayantani Dasgupta