Look how Delhi now wriggles like a jellied dream—
Or Colonel Landa’s strudel with fresh whipped cream
Pray, who was it that said, Delhi is not Far—
Was it Netaji, or Zafar, or Ghalib, or morpheme?
The city once seemed like a world of nocturnal radios—
If only I knew its soundwaves were not a seraphim
The waylaid tombstones of Munirka remind me
Moonlit Taj Mahal postcards are not what they seem
No more can I promise you a lifetime of love
Yet, for old time’s sake, let me offer you per diem
Qasim, you’ve lingered too long—now, let’s push the door,
And that final piston through my bloodstream!
Photograph courtesy: Life Magazine.
Arup K. Chatterjee 