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

for my mother (1934 – 2008)

Greater Kailash, New Delhi, Early 1070s

for my mother (1934 – 2008)

she left me, with the thoughts of her embrace to warm me, in frigid mornings of tomorrows yet to come.

she left me, with words of tender truths to shroud me, in the coming evenings of stabbing sleet.

she left me, yet she stays within me, in my waking dreams, my restful thoughts.

she stays forever within me,

of me she shall remain an abiding part,

of the love.

the pain.

the tears.

so that we shall never be truly apart …

          _________

My Family – A historical journey through the seasons …

https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2016/01/12/my-family-a-historical-journey-through-the-seasons-2/

ode to delhi … … …

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’ “borrowed” vespas,

aur phir Diwali would announce its imminent arrival,

smog-filled galiyaan, 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.

the girl with the beret … … …

I remember her beret,

on that rainy day at the bus-stop, 

she said that she had grown tired of the pretences this world demanded,

we spoke of Marx and she smiled, for I was much younger then, wearing it all on my sleeve,

she smiled, and we spoke till she had to leave.

we met at that bus-stop many times more,

sharing our laughter, our pain, of the knots that cut deep into our core,

she always wore her beret and she was fierce, brave and steadfastly traversing the murky waters of being a wage-slave,

we promised each other we wouldn’t be like the rest, not even in our grave,

ah but that was many moons back, when life was starkly coloured white and black,

I wonder where she could be now, and I hope she is as she was back then,

when everything wasn’t just about love and light and being zen,

I wonder too were we to perchance meet, would she pull me close out of the grime stained street,

or would she walk on by, leaving me to my own devices,

after decades of being whittled down, after making all the right choices … … …

the ache of love … … …

​on your skin, scribbling odes to love,
angry, lost, empty,

raucous, pristine, encompassing love.
on my heart, scribbled odes embossed, etched, engraved,
yearning, pining, aching,
for you … … …

your honeydew lips … … …

destiny

fate

somewhere

someplace

alfoat on honeydew petals

mere strands

filaments

years trickling through

fingertips

lost whispers

dreamed caresses

awake

alive …

smouldering

ablaze in the cauldron

of

destiny

fate

of convergent wisps

sprinkling kisses

on your

honeydew lips

breathless … …

​breathless, laboured

               tortured

each breath

                     swallowed

greedily gulping gasping

each breath

                    stolen

                               without you

fingers … … …

​your fingers

mine

sketching dreams

scribbling hopes

my fingers

yours

holding back

resistant

knowing the path ahead

littered with thorns

oblivious

knowing

the path ahead must be walked

alone at times 

but never lonely 

not with you by my side

evoking a belonging felt true and deep

inside

Double-Helixed uBuntu … … …

these interwoven veins

dna

double-helixed

microscopically

binding

me

you

us

all

through

this common

shared

truth:

‘I am because you are’*

all of us

together

as one

me

you …

… uBuntu*

  

* – uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”

imagine … … …

a beach of solace

the lapping waves

tickling our bare toes

softly powdered sand caressing our feet

a carpet of palms

waltzing in the breeze

imagine …

you

i

setting sail on distant seas

far

far

away

bidding adieu to the emptiness of yesterday

sharing each other

knowing that your

smile

stays with me

within me

through

tomorrows we have still to see

sharing

our slice of peace

through

laughter

tears

through

joy

fears

to

bloom in earthy hues

when thunderstorms pass

blossoming into fiery scarlet

kneading away

our hollow suburban blues …

for ’tis in your smile

that my mirth resides

imagine …

your head on my shoulder

ready to face all

oncoming tides

imagine … 

history of hope … …

​misty tears fall on splintered parchment

history simmers

the shackles of centuries cast off

the chains of oppression shattered

embracing new horizons

dawning

and

trusting once again

in that unfinished dream

of less famished tomorrows

for her, who knows who she is … … …

scribbling verses

on her bare back

my fingers

rhyming

each flourish a caress

etching odes to hope

across the canvas

of her warm skin …

her breath

inflamed

seeking

fingertips

lips

sashaying in the evening breeze

dancing free

abandoning trepidation

what do i know

as 

fingers flutter

over undulating peaks

valleys …

softly

gently

as soul meets soul

she who is

half of my whole

she who remains

my perennial

meditation

The Palette of Dreams … … …

 …

straining to hear

the thud-thudding of your heart

amidst this cacophonous crowd.

so

i close my eyes

and

i see you

floating on clouds

unfettered

free to just be

your wings spread proud

unclipped

skipping

hopping

across sunbeams

sketching your open sky

bathed in

colours vivid

alive

fiery

earthy

warm

fierce

gentle

each 

brush stroke

infused with hues

from 

the palette of your dreams …

the shedding of skin … … …

​Parched lullabies seem jarring,

gentle persuasion an assault,
quiet understanding reeking of decay,
fatigued under this skin in which I must stay.

Dreams of moulting,
shedding the hubris of crafty words,
flushing away all famished rhymes,
ripping the fibres of an ink-stained past.

Knowing.

Always knowing,

that honey-soaked kisses, seem destined,
breathlessly,
never to last

the dilution of memory

​Embers fade,

disappearing into the hushed night …

Petals wither,
falling on the soft grass …

Words pale,
obscured by the anguish within …

Faces blur,
dimmed by the galloping years …

Kisses lose,
the urgency of those bygone depths …

Feelings recede,
lying dormant in shielded vaults …

Love loses,
fatigued after numberless skirmishes …

Pain flees,
seeking new wounds to inflict …

Scars remain,
sentinels against,

the dilution of memory … … …

Why him, they ask her …

​why, they ask her,

why him?

she always says the

day we met

and spoke

and laughed

she felt

all she needed to be was herself

William Dalrymple’s Inscription

William Dalrymple, author of ‘City of Djinns’ inscribed my copy.

Inscription reads “from an adopted Dilliwaala to Afzal, a real one”

😊

✌

👍

✊

Love, Mania, and Verse

​

The pendulum swings,
while the mania in my head,
strips me bare and yanks me,
into the cauldron of love.

Once again,
never divining the tea leaves,
knowing, always knowing,
the gnawing knots of unease,
that curl into a fist.

My isolation is a shield,
a suit of armour,
tightly clad around my self,
once worn,
then discarded,
taking its place,
on my barren shelf.

Love, mania and verse,
coalesce, beseeching me,
with timeous forewarning,
not to tread into the quicksand,
that slippery bog of promise.

Yet,
in times past,
in moments present,
tis’ that very promise,
that I cling to.

At times I lose,
myself in the crowd,
revelling in the solitude found there,

at times I claw,
my way back to the now,
aching for the pain that stings,

the buried voice that sings,
dirges to forgotten emotions,

scribbled verse that flings,
the toys out of my cot,

while I wait,
for the mania to stop,

knowing,
always knowing,
that it shall be,

merely a matter of time,
before the other shoe,
must, as always, 
drop

talkin’ beautiful eyes blues … … …

​

my starved eyes, aching for a glimpse of your smile, ready to beguile, their thirst quenched, seeking simple joys, not million dollar toys, finally, coaxed the ocean of your eyes, to reveal the kernel of truth beneath the veneer of lies, so love me now, today, where fractured dreams are made whole by the sea spray, plunging deeper into the ocean shimmering in your eyes, hoping we may breathe, like the terror of time, high on up into blue skies, where love roams unshackled, in that ocean so deep,

in your beautiful eyes … … …

tattoo … … …

​An imprint of you remains,

mingled in the blood racing through my veins,

hewn into my flesh you stay,

a chiselled tattoo from our long-lost yesterday,

deeply branded by your entire being,

rooted to a memory incapable of fleeing,

torn, and twisting inside my skin,

the pain screeches like jangling cans of tin,

a desolate nightmare this agony feels,

with a phantom whiff of your sweet breath my soul reels,

now that you are gone, lost within a labyrinth of illusions,

your voice swarms inside my desperate delusions,

scratching, clawing layers of past moments spent with you,

you are a part of me, an unfaded, vivid tattoo,

and as my dreams of you frantically race,

I am unable to erase,

the blazing picture of your exquisite face,

so let me be, and leave me to burn in this furnace of my hell,

I should have known better,

but all that matters little,

because it was for you, that I fell

A Child of War

 
as she lies bleeding,

the girl who skipped, hopped to school,

all of nine and a half years old,

with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her father’s pride.
 

as she lies bleeding,

shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,

she stares at her skipping rope,

as her blood soaks it the colour of cherries her mummy buys.
 

as she lies bleeding,

she sees people all around thick black smoke,

blurred visions of scattering feet, shoes left behind,

hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.
 

as she lies bleeding,

she slips away and then she is dead,

a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her father’s pride.
 
 

as she lies bleeding,

for even in death she bleeds some more,

shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,

stealing the light from her bright little eyes.

as she lies bleeding …
in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,

leningrad in ‘42,

freetown in ‘98,

soweto in ‘76,

jenin in ‘02,

hanoi in ‘68,

beirut in ‘85,
raqqa now,

aleppo still,

gaza too.
 

as she lies bleeding,

a little nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her parent’s pride,

we know she’ll bleed more,
tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,
with shrapnel in her stomach,

ripped open and torn.
as she lies bleeding … …

‘normal’

​they said she was opinionated, they said that she was loud,

they said she was too feisty, less prone to being a ‘normal’ woman, to listen and to keep her views to herself, they said she was too independent, less ladylike, far too manly.

I loved her because she was opinionated, loud,

I loved her for being feisty, less prone to being a ‘normal’ woman, to speak her mind and to shout her views to the world, I loved her for her independence, for who she was.

she was fierce, not macho, strong not manly,

I loved her for all of that and more … … …

mired in the bog … … …

​mired in the bog, unseeing eyes staring into the fog,

what becomes of a soul so filled with strife, that all of life, seems with tension rife,

what becomes of the soul that yearns to be whole, clawing at the freshly dug hole, a tomb of dreams torn apart, the cemetery of joys meant only to depart,

what becomes of the heart, swirling in the maelstrom of regret, cursed by the burdens of not being able to forget,

what becomes of the man, desolate and empty, devoid of yearning, as day turns to night, and night to day,

what becomes of it all, when hope scurries away … … …

you and i

​waiting for you, with quickening pulse,

desirous, anticipating the brush of your lips against mine,

kiss me deeply, i shall do the same,

today, and in our tomorrows yet to be teased out of time … … 

weathering the fates … … …

​weathering storms of fate, walking boulevards smooth as slate,

the hurt remains, the pain jabs, the emptiness sheaths,

while in the corner the beast of apathy growls, pants, and breathes … … …

your tender touch … … …

​walking on shattered splinters, crushed glass piercing my soul,

your tender touch offers respite from the pain, freeing my soul,

to be once again,

whole … … …

Veils

​Embroidered smiles, chiselled conversations,

banal, hollow,

the cacophony of practised apathy,
smothering,
whispers of the forgotten,

as smiles abound,

with coffee and croissants 

searching … …

​Searching,

in the debris of the past,
scraps of casually discarded emotion.

Searching,

in hastily trashed yesterdays,
an inkling of moments flung away.

Searching,

in heaps of rubbished words,
that tiresome sigh of defeated thought.

Searching,

in the layers of moulted skin
the wilting self that once was true.

Searching,

in the reflections between the ripples,
for the whispered pangs of roaring desire.

Searching,

in the blank eyes streaming endlessly,
an echo of the faintest sigh of new life.

Searching … … …

love | found

​hold me tight, she said, let us leave the cruel fates behind,

we embraced, clinging onto a love once too rare to find … … …

life turns … … …

​life turns, a coiled  tightening spring,

shattering souls, tormenting hearts,

life turns,

and all vows do hollow ring … … …

Saturday Morning in Jo’Burg

😼

l o v e | y o u

​she told me that she cried a lot, she said there is a hole in her heart, she said this vacuum she could not plug, is the force that is tearing me apart.

and when i asked her what it was that plagued her so,

she said not casting out love, not losing that sliver of hope,

of never letting go of the imprint of love, of always holding on to you … … …

evening falls

​

evening falls,

thoughts of her swirl,

caressing each waking breath,

in the shade of her hair, gently rolling in the breeze,

beginning softly to unfurl. 

evening falls,

thoughts of her murmur within my being,

as she remains quiet,

as she remains unseen … …

u n t i t l e d … … …

​feathery kisses, caressing air, spring scents on the breeze, the taste of salt on skin,

disjointed memories,

ravaging the soul, mangling the heart,

ripping my very being, tearing it all, bit by bit, estranged … apart

Mother & I (Greater Kailash S – Block, New Delhi early 1970s)

Greater Kailash S – Block, New Delhi early 1970s

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.

Pandit-Ji – a poem for Jawaharlal Nehru

A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru

Pandit-Ji*

1.

The moon cast an enveloping shadow over the teeming multitudes,

as they made their tryst with destiny**,

with you as the bearer of the light,

and at the stroke of the midnight hour,

you emerged an icon, from the long and desolate night.

Long years had passed,
since those humid evenings spent,
languishing in jail,

yet your mind remained unshackled,
putting words on paper in the dim candlelight,

as the gaudy glare of empire began to pale.

2.

Today,
you live,

within us,
though not amongst us,

and,

your discovery,
your glimpses,

smoulder within me,

your immortal words,
my compass.

I am now,
the soul of nations,
once suppressed,

that have,
found utterance.

I am now,
me.

I am now,
finally,

free.

       _________________

* – ‘Pandit-Ji’ was the name that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India, was respectfully called.

** – excerpts from Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech on 15th August 1947

on forgetting

on forgetting.

these days, these nights,
slicing to the core,
momentary joys, buoys,

merely afloat as beacons,
for lost travellers on the waters,

in flight,

holding on,
onto, clutching close,

hugging,
clichés aside,
holding on for dear life,

while days turn into more nights,

nights into years,

passing us by:

spectators,
ground down on rehashed tales,

finally, feeling the waft of fresh air,

knowing at last, at last,

the past would really, truly,
be the past

for delhi

for delhi
( meri dilli meri jaan)

in anticipation,
of a touch, a caress,

something tugs, straining,

luring me,
back through the smoky mists of bygone days,

magically transporting me,

my memory,

to monsoon drenched days in ol’ delhi town,

your hand in mine,
hidden in plain sight,

lost in the starburst,
of many a shared diwali night,

summers of,

‘borrowed’ scooters,

gol-gappas in the connaught rain,

bicycle rides to the melas,

rewinding that one song over and over again,

after racing to your home:

(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight.

and i have been dying a bit,
little each day,

since you,
& i,

journeyed as we all must,

you, remaining stoic, still,

as

still
i make my own way …

A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru

Pandit-Ji* – A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru

 

1.

 

The moon cast an enveloping shadow over the teeming multitudes,

as they made their tryst with destiny**,

with you as the bearer of the light,

and at the stroke of the midnight hour,

you emerged an icon, from the long and desolate night.

Long years had passed,
since those humid evenings spent,
languishing in jail,

yet your mind remained unshackled,
putting words on paper in the dim candlelight,

as the gaudy glare of empire began to pale.

 

2.

Today,
you live,

within us,
though not amongst us,

and,

your discovery,
your glimpses,

smoulder within me,

your immortal words,
my compass.

I am now,
the soul of nations,
once suppressed,

that have,
found utterance.

I am now,
me.

I am now,
finally,

free.

 

 

* – ‘Pandit-Ji’ was the name that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India, was respectfully called.

** – excerpts from Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech on 15th August 1947

My mother (with tears in her eyes)

(for Lata Sethi’s late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

…a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband

who was in exile at the time…

 
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there…

 
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay…

 
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg…

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady…

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband…

a Parsi (Zoroastrian) ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned…

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag…

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon…

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband…

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local…

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile…

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees…

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably…

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa…

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name… 

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’…

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain…

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like…

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Punjabi neighbours who had become refugees themselves, as ‘Muslim’ Pakistan was created…

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based…

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes…

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi…

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi…

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi…

This was in the mid-1970’s…

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more…

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi…

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and shared anguish…

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience…

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human…

and that is why there will always be hope…

hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this…

hope…

(for Lata Sethi’s late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)