Daryaganj

I went to Daryaganj yesterday

And thought of you.

The book bazaar has changed name, place and destination,

Filled with pulp and cramming guides.

Odds and ends, broken down hovels

Ancient inns masquearading as hotels,

Tea shacks as before, with adrak wali chai, poured fresh from pan.

The old police station, those colonial arcades still resplendent

New bag sellers bark: keep it back!

When I spend an extra moment, trying to read the fine print.

Biryani shacks open, but no one there.

So, I was thinking of visiting, unannounced, spending some time with you

Discussing this and that, nothing scholarly,

Just how things are.

I was thinking of this - over lunch - nice naan, kulcha well stuffed

Onion and aloo, some masoor dal made specially for me

A kebab or two, and lots of green salad days,

Remembering what books meant then,

Now, just a biography of Leonard Woolf stays aloof

From the crowd of pedestrian exam guides.

A collection of English comic writings, nothing more.

The sun set here long ago.

Dilapidation cannot last forever.

New things take over.

But there is something still peeping from those rickety blinds

Perhaps the wood of long ago, squared with the past.

Humour or shade, who knows, who cares,

As curtains part - once- briefly, perhaps it is the wind.

No, it must be something else, but nothing shows up

During daylight hours.

The rickshaw puller resting on the pavement,

Reading a Hindi newspaper, an op-ed on India and China.

He is not speaking to anyone.

A bunch of gamblers place their bets about a pack of cards.

Some laughter rings from closed shutters.

Golcha, the movie hall, now gone with the wind.

A faded line about the last movie shown.

Kahaani -Part 2, the sequel, but no posters now beckon.

Maybe there is one more act, still to follow.

Reborn as multiplex, as butter popcorn and fine coffee.

Later, the ubiquitous metro stairs and metro queue

Longer than the journey.

I even think of calling you, but you must be reading –

or - inside your siesta.

Later in the evening, your son texts me.

You are in critical care.

Your son and I exchange notes, on medicines and prognosis.

We think you can make it

For one more cup of tea, just you and me

In the narrow lanes of Daryaganj.

And perhaps we can find our place in the midday sun,

Between the muddy galli and the road to nowhere.

Perhaps, this time, we will pick up

That old conversation about right and duty

And I will once again, talk of freedom

While you brew some more tea over dignity.