Tale of a City and Forbidden Times

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The charcoal laden clouds
adorning the minarets
often break down in unison,
rinsing the serpentine lanes
of my yesteryears.

The city itself
shorn of concrete and glass
(but built of you and me)
resonates
of forbidden times –
street hawkers, Doordarshan,
a fistfight for marbles,
and
home, of course:

on sultry summer days,
with an eye on the door I used to lie,
huddled
under the petulant fan,
gnawing
comics books
buried
under the cover
of “World History”.

While I scampered to prayers,
skull cap tucked neatly
in the pocket of a freshly starched
oversized kurta,
Mrs Verma watched,
nervous
and suspicious
as always,
perched on her balcony.

Holding on to dad,
I swerved past stray dogs
and puddles, en route to the book shop,
percolating my senses
with the impending smell of new books
and the touch of virgin pages.

A world on the terrace –
of kites,
a winter sun,
and a few stolen glances
towards the hazel beauty a block away,
indulgent in a game of candour
with her paramour,
leaving my heart in smithereens,
every single time.

Today,
the vintage smell of my
innocence
lingers
alone,
in a city
raped and
reeking of
death –
on the hands of
its own
servants.