Sunday, April 9, 2017

A few lines for/of Hyderabad


We went out to see tiger, deer and peacock in the forest.
You had waited for a long time for this day.
Among the abundance of nature and the swinging car ride
and the sparkling excitement of your young eyes,
Hyderabad is an enigma with its rocky exuberance.
Even the orange colored trees lined up to go to the
water that fell into the dam. We were happy.

He kept complaining about
his office
about India
about the traffic.
We learnt:
His office is bad
Life is bad
Traffic is bad.
I kept nodding affirmative, you fell silent.

The sun became rude and the ride bumpy!
We came back
and he complained about
not seeing tiger, deer and peacock
and we learnt: forests are bad.

Later you and I discussed the deer in our chests
It makes noise
And lying on bed we heard it clearly!

City and I ...

Dearest City, you and I
had been busy with other things
involved in the urgency of our work, but
now, away from your touch
my eyes long to see the Imli tree
under which I had buried a fistful of my
loneliness and a slice of my secret joy.
Dearest City, you hold the word ‘home’ for me,
the home that I carry like a liquid in my eyes.
So, would you accept my desperation
to put my memory in your time?

Words about you ...

What if the paper flies away from under the words?

Words that dance in your roads, lanes and by-lanes
and sit and watch the flip-flop of the water of Hussain Sagar, and
the Buddha standing tall in the centre, already captured in my tattoo;
words that sleep and play among the folds of history, tucking the zari bordered sarees of the queens from across
the light and sound of Golconda Fort,
and words who often tend to hide behind the layers of the rusty Charminar !

Fearing if someday the paper decides to escape from under these words,
I have put a heavy paper-weight on its chest, in the centre.
Now the paper can’t escape. It can’t move. Because
It doesn’t breathe anymore.


City, you are I, and I am you.
My forehead is your courtyard where the pigeons
eat the scattered grains every morning.
Your summer and your winter
are my ear rings.
My pierced earlobes are the
nails on your walls that developed a crack
because of the hammering.
My varicose-vein legs are
your trees that fell in the storm and
lay like unclaimed dead bodies.
Both of us contain mud, clay and
throbbing life in our bodies.
City, you are I, and I am you.



Unknown said...

Very enjoyable read

Shilpa Chandrasekheran said...

I worked with google Hyderabad for nearly two years and I have loved Hyderabad always . To my knowledge it's a neat place with good people around . I love the paradise biriyani there :) earned quite a few friends from Hyderabad .

Sherry Blue Sky said...

I was most struck by the way the man's temperament slowly squeezed the joy out of the day. I lived that reality once. I also really enjoyed the poem to your city, and especially like the line " the Imli tree under which I had buried a fistful of my loneliness and a slice of my secret joy."

ayala said...

Lovely reading your poetry again. Nice pieces.

indybev said...

An interesting and introspective journey. A good read.

Susan said...

I only read the first, but I found it so delightful that I'll try to get back to read the rest. You pinpoint exactly how children learn what to value in the scene about going to and returning from the forest.

gautami tripathy said...

Very well written!​

Sanaa Rizvi said...

Such an enjoyable read :)