By Ishan Kukreti
This city weeps ambers, spewing fire and fatigue all around its girth, on children dancing, swallowing, slowly fire burning mosques, raping government buildings, wearing their wary eyes thin with tears for their lost mothers.
Old saintly street-lamps pondering over busy streets going straight, not looking Right or Left, where you just crash into the wall and set up a tent, crying and claiming prophesies, at night bright with ideas, but all alone.
Absconding, in beds, bunkers, boxes hiding and running emotions on roads, scared, screaming for azadi and revolutions in the name of holy Marx and mother of Gods, forgetting to shave and to have a healthy breakfast, all the while remembering a lover no longer there.
Weather violating rational logic, coming down in buckets otherwise empty in anticipation or from a heatstroke but not like blue Stuti’s face, freckled from men who forgot umbrellas or condoms or jackets or raincoats or promises or passions or wore tuxedos instead, when she rained.
From Parliament Street to Akshardham, burning gasoline, from the tombs of Mughals to libraries of Ambedkar and Gandhi, burning gasoline. Through Connaught Place via Africa Avenue, burning gasoline. From the erection of Aibak to the cunt of Lutyen, burning gasoline. From the menacing malls of NCR to the dull shops smelling of kerosene in Khidki village, burning gasoline. From central Dilli to trans-Yamuna, burning gasoline. On flyovers, in DDA colonies, around parks through take-aways and 24*7s, burning gasoline. Burning gasoline through the night, through dusk, dawn and after noon, when no one, no one can tell you where it is that you have to go.
Believers in Burger King and Baba Ramdev’s brand of spiritual Maggi noodles and enlightened Fast Moving Consumer Goods, hogging women and children and men and transsexuals in the name of rape and god, feeding flocks to fractal factories of moksha and cosmos.
Mandir of Ram and Masjid of Mohammed distributing ideological weapons to legitimize wars and Churches of Christ crooning compassion for a token fee of faith and land, like advance booking realtors of heavenly studio apartments, pimping angelic nymphs by dozens, conquering minds but defeating humans.
Smoking marijuana and popping LSD, lost in the labyrinth of mystic knowledge and psychedelic trance, rambling of post-modern, post-fathom, post-rock and post prior to present or past munching munches, moving to moves and elating to grey-bearded saintly stoners till the last pass and then having trouble coping with reality.
People moving around central markets munching momos, mortified mothers mumbling magical threats to their kids, waging war for Pokémon or attention, in gas stations for renewing vigor past the weekend.
Rushing from home to office, and rushing to rush back again after having rushed back home, on a Monday, on a Tuesday, on a Wednesday, on a Thursday, on a Friday, on a Saturday, even though it was supposed to be an off, be a date, be a dinner, be a drinker or whatever the heck.
In Hauz Khas village, smoking cigarettes. In Palam Vihar, smoking cigarettes. On Anand parvat, smoking cigarettes. From metro stations to meeting places, smoking cigarettes. From orgasm to foreplay, smoking cigarettes. From protests to police stations, smoking cigarettes. Getting bored, smoking cigarettes. Waiting to smoke, smoking cigarettes. Behind my mother’s back, smoking cigarettes. In the morning, trying to take a dump, smoking cigarettes. From his lips to mine, smoking cigarettes. From her lips to mine, smoking cigarettes. Smoking cigarettes and just smoking cigarettes.
Dear followers of Heraclitus, your city, doused in melancholy, is a dead museum of memories, surviving between living and dying, remembering the lonesome Pandavs, the experimenting Tughlaqs, the raids of Taimur, the songs of Sufis, the taste of freedom and the pillage for Gandhi.
Dear followers of Prince Siddhartha, your city, this Sisyphus of your history, insomniac and stoic, forever placed under an eternal Bodhi tree, runs on a convenient and quasi-slacker doctrine of Madhyam marg.
Dear disciples of mystic spirituality mixed with a pinch of rationality, your city is dying, your city is pleading, your city, this colossal monument in the history of your frail memory, is begging you, is asking for just two words,
peace and harmony, peace and harmony, peace and harmony…
Pic-credit: Ishan Kukreti
Ishan Kukreti is a journalist based out of Delhi, who tries to counter the negativity encountered while reporting news stories by writing poetry.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday is the blog of Cafe Dissensus magazine, based in New York City, USA. All materials on the site are protected under Creative Commons License.
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