By Goirick Brahmachari
It was not the light
or the absence of it.
Not even the white that
washed our faces on that cold
December marble-stoned morning.
It was a burqa.
A woman in black,
hair wrapped in a hijab
that made us realise that black is as pure
A yellow sun melts in through the jafri
into a dark room at Tughlakabad,
flitters over a lonesome child’s grave
streaming yellow rays of a cold sun
in slow motion, over the dead and onto the stones.
And everything, everything else turns black.
When the ghost caught me at Nizamuddin,
there was no looking back. I escaped time
to find myself sitting over the ruins of an untraceable monument.
The guard says he sleeps without fear every night.
I look slowly through the pillars, then through the window
allowing more light, as if my eyes were a camera.
And the dawn wears a dusk.
And the shadows disappear.
A few dead nights in peer’s eyes.
Now I float like white smoke
from a burning incense stick
in black stone walls of Firoz Shah Kotla.
[Pic-credit: Goirick Brahmachari. The picture will be used as a poster for his upcoming documentary, Dilli Dur Ast, which is at a post-production stage. The docu would be released in 2016.]
Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in New Delhi, India. He hails from Silchar, Assam. His first volume of poetry, For the Love of Pork, is forthcoming from Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark.
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