Prime relics and vintage dust await mems and sahibs, in the archive.
Guilds of satin mongers have laced their poisons in the archive.
Zafar, your revolt was exiled, by these charlatans, to Rangoon:
Ask them where your sons had hung; their wills are in which archive?
Let’s crown loud ignorers who burn bright with hollow conviction.
Let’s hack the knowers of awkward sciences, too deep in the archive.
May lords arrive with drums and thunder, drunk with righteous heat.
May us witches be undressed and unheard, till darkness in the archive.
The register holds a stubborn odor, like mint coffee gone cold at dusk.
“Here was a shrine,” the tyrant says, “we razed and put in the archive.”
Qasim, keep your ink nimble, file your jokes with malleable grace.
Your ibaadat trails you, while their attar trails in the archive.
Photograph Courtesy: Pexels, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 