Response poem 2: Yatish

(A poem in response to Agha Shahid Ali's A Butcher)

The Blacksmith

In this lane

Near Jama Masjid

I take a stroll, looking for

the past

interspersed in the bustling streets of

Chawri baazar

One tries to hear

the forgotten sound

of the ghungroes of

the Tawaifs 

in vain.

as the streets of the

Bazaar-e-Husn now

are flooded with new

shops and their customers

And a tribe of porters

moving the mountains

of goods across

the clutter and chatter

brims from the streets

Twenty first century

is springing up as

the old in Delhi slowly

Decays

As I pass by

The vista of utensil shops

The roadside tree temple

My steps stop by a shop

Which harbors 

a mosque on its top

Red in color known as 

lal masjid

Red has been smeared

On the fate of Delhi

Throughout the course of history

Red sandstone from Rajasthan

The one which is known to all

On the walls of lal quila & Jama masjid

The khooni darwaza, the gateway of blood

Opens into Delhi

red was the color of the streets

when the rebels took over

and British struck back

1857s, 1947s and the 84s

Never cease to haunt the city 

I stop by

To capture the mosque

And the shop in my phone

A voice calls for me from behind

“surely, someone would ask me to

Delete the picture” I suspected

when I turn around I see

A dark and dingy little shop

Four men sitting together

The eldest with white beard

Asks, if I am fond of

taking pictures along

 I couldn’t hear him

“Do you want me to delete the picture?

so I ask.

“No,no, I am not bothered

Until you are from ABVP”

he says with a grin on his face

He fondly tells me about

Various other mosques in vicinity

Which one overlooks amid

The burgeoning bazaar he tells

Me about the haveli of

Second begum of the unfortunate

last Mughal emperor, who

Betrayed him to side with the British

The poet’s laments resound today.

I look for past in his shop

I look for the past on his face

I search for stories of this lane
on the creases on his face

"All these years,
        What did you see

change before your eyes"

He continues,”

Four hundred years ago

Our ancestors came to this land

They were blacksmiths,

So are we, he smiles. In his

Little shop with his four brothers

The shop which looks petty

From outside has treasures inside

It’s a places of solace

In scorching Delhi summer

The mica roof, a hundred year old

The switchboard too here

Has lived a long life

A part of a jet engine

lies on the ground to be repaired

in this small shop

the Russian &Volkswagen

when the set protocols offer no repair

they find a hope in this littleshop

“Our ancestors made

Swords and chains

For the kings

Bayonets for the british.

My grandfather was the

First to drive a car in Delhi

Sent by the great Tata himself

To be the first to learn the art

They ask me for chai

As talking to them hours pass by

“it pains when someone says

You don’t belong to this land”

Slowly the silence overpowers

The lanes which once

Reverberated with words of

Mir-o-ghalib

One finds difficult to listen

The whispers of the

Longings and laments of the poets

“when one is overwhelmed with pain

The pain gets washed away”

Ghalib says

.