For Delhi: An Exile’s Lament

from google

For Delhi: An Exile’s Lament for his adopted Hometown …

In anticipation,

of a touch, a caress,

something tugs, straining,

luring me back,

through smoky mists of bygone times,

magically transporting me,

to the lilting strains of sensuous ghazals and erotic rhymes.

My memory flees the splintered now,

to monsoon drenched days in Delhi town,

with your hand in mine, hidden in plain sight,

whistling romantic tunes in the scorching Delhi summer night.

Days of gol-gappas* in the Connaught Place rain,

bicycle rides to the melas**,

to rewinding our song over and over again.

I do confess I have been dying a little each day, since you and I were torn apart,

when from our beloved Delhi I had to so hurriedly depart.

I have been dying the death of a thousand cuts, since bidding farewell to you and to our eternal Delhi town,

sinking bit by bit, into the frigid ocean of fate,

where I feel myself ever so slowly,

drown.

* – gol-gappas or paani-puri, a favourite roadside dast-food.

** – mela, the Hindi word for a carnival 

from google

for Delhi-waalas everywhere

bunking classes in school, trying too hard to seem too cool.

those lazy humid summer days, nodding off on the bus ride home, with Delhi feeling like a greenhouse dome.

shedding our school bags, racing to round up the friends, the 40° heat never even an afterthought, batting and bowling in our small park, till bad-light caused us to gather in the dark.

my buddy and i, singing Beatles’ songs loud enough for the two girls we had crushes on, “Can’t buy me Love” belted out till we were hoarse, surviving the glaring looks of the disapproving  grannies of course.

those were the days, of cycling to the cinema, to watch “Sholay” for the umpteenth time, sitting in the 2-rupee seats right in front, rattling off the dialogue line by line.

racing back home to catch a few songs on “Chitrahaar”, sitting up close to our ancient black and white telly, the picture quality akin to snow, not that it mattered, this was after all our most coveted tv show.

getting our ears clipped at times for coming home late, the joyful sounds of laughter from our friends who were en-route home to a similar fate.

lighting clay diyas as Diwali approached, stuffing our faces with malaai burfi from “Bengal Sweet House”, downing sweet lassis as autumn upon summer encroached.

“borrowing” friends’ dad’s scooters, the wind in our hair, inhaling the pollution without any care, off to Connaught Place for an ice-cream at Nirulas, and to stock up on our filmi music cassettes from the ever smiling Sikh man at Palika Bazaar, till we emerged above ground, each of us smelling like an incense shop from afar.

stopping off in Defence Colony, to savour some gol-gappas and ganne-ka-ras, the only word never uttered those days was “bas”.

gliding down the streets of our colony, as if we were kings, with the brash swagger that being a teenager brings.

enjoying the Diwali nights, friends exchanging sweetmeats, as Delhi resounded with firecrackers and rocket streaked skies, having our fill of never-ending chais.

winter came along with its polluted fog blanketing the freezing early morn, our pleas of “only 5 minutes more” falling on deaf ears as from our warm beds we were torn.

when spring hopped along, we waited for Holi, to sing countless a filmi-song, with our pichkaaris, and water-filled balloons, aiming at all, giggling like buffoons.

if nostalgia is a seductive liar, as I somewhere once read, then allow me to be seduced, again and again, after all these years and all these miles that have been tread.

to be taken back to the Delhi of yesteryear, ignites a fierce passion, and I crave a coconut dipped syrupy meethha paan,

for after all these years inbetween here and there,

it’ll always be “meri Dilli, meri jaan”

               ____________

Glossary:

“Sholay” – A popular Bollywood film of the 1970s.

“Chitrahaar” – A musical television show.

“Diyas” – small earthen lamps lit during Diwali.

“Diwali” – the festival of light.

“Malaai Burfi” – A popular sweetmeat.

“Lassi” – A popular yoghurty drink.

“Connaught Place” – the centre of New Delhi.

“Palika Bazaar” – An underground shopping complex in Connaught Place.

“Nirulas” – A popular fast food restaurant.

“Gol-gappas” – A popular fast food

“Ganne-ka-ras” – Sugarcane juice.

“Defence Colony” – A suburb of New Delhi.

“Bas” – A Hindi word meaning ‘enough’.

“Chai” – Tea

“Holi” – the festival of colours, heralding the arrival of spring.

“Pichkaari” – A toy like device to spray water. Commonly used on Holi.

“Meetha Paan” – sweet Betel leaf filled with syrup and other fragrant spices.

“Meri Dilli, Meri Jaan” – literally meaning ‘my Delhi, my life”

“Dilli” – Delhi

ode to my hometown, commonly known as yet another pompous scribble

ode to my hometown, commonly known as yet another pompous scribble

taste of gol-gappas,
drowning tongues,
in dreams of monsoon-marinated dilli,

of cycle-repair stalls,
sweet-lime soda hued shawls,

dtc at minto bridge stuck as always,
see how tragedy binds us still,
to the olden days,

nostalgic kisses, quivering lips brushing each other,
during stolen moments,
on friends’ fathers’ “loaned” vespas,

aur phir Diwali would announce its imminent arrival,
smog-filled galiyan, diyas alight in the pre-winter night,

and then, sheher ki roshni dazzled us all,
( not very acceptable, granted, in this eco-age )

and we danced into the chilly autumn night,
barely touching each other,

yet our souls,
hearts,

the sum of our desires,
our innocent yearning,

seemed sated at nights end,

and to that,
that feeling, hardly ever felt since:

contentment.

enoughness.

that,
keeps me dreaming these nostalgic,
spicy dreams,

of leather against willow,
setting fields,
the sight of middle-stump toppling,

memories etched,
engraved, tattoed into my being,

along with you,

my constant,
fellow traveller,

mere humsafar,

and though dilliwaalas are known to spin a yarn,

let’s leave it as it was,

meri dilli, meri jaan.