Poem I Khushi Dobriyal
Under the tapestry of the waxing crescent
in the night sky,
in the busiest markets of Chandni Chowk,
I found my quiet.
The silver reflection in the mirror,
in the streets of Dariba Kalan,
tells me to pick the only silver crescent moon anklet.
The silver I took, the silver I lost!
The penetrated silver reflection hid himself
somewhere in the ashes of burnt libraries,
the moment he left me with his silver embrace.
Soon, the silver turned into a false mrigatrishna
and the silver chosen by the reflection of it turned into
a hope sewn into the doorstep of my heart,
a hope to stand in the shade of a full moon,
with the moon, himself.
About a fortnight later,
the moon transitioned to waxing gibbous phase.
The silver moon anklet coruscated
with the sky's transforming hues and shades.
The red sandstone of Qutub Minar
started radiating more and stronger
hues of red than ever before,
The chants in the Gauri-Shankar temple
in the very Chandni Chowk,
sings of the power of love and reunion.
The muffled courtyard of my home,
the bustling streets of Chandni Chowk,
the shades of red,
the songs of reunion,
the silver blanket laid out by the sky,
the transition creeping up on the night sky,
The book in my hands
with the words of Rumi,
The phoenix rising from the ashes
of the burnt libraries,
What are these,
if not signs of slow-stepped transition-
to full moon,
to ful-fill-ment?
Like the bougainvillea creeping up on
my deserted courtyard,
A full moon night
creeped up on the embraced sky.
Not all the old harbors of books
were relinquished.
and those who weren't,
those will be the homes of our reunion.
The phoenix who rose from the
ashes of burnt libraries,
carries with itself an identity of them,
with a heart to make its own story.
The bougainvillea on the entrance of
Faqir Chand & Sons bookstore,
in the full moon night,
talks to the bougainvillea of my courtyard.
It says, "The muffled voices of your heart
will find their home here,
The bustling streets will once again
find their quiet here".
With the arrival of the full moon night,
the silver moon anklet sparkled
more than ever before,
with the arrival of the full moon,
again, the silver found its silver,
in the very entrance of the bookstore.
The moment the lashes of
my eyes blinked,
the hope once sewn into
the doorstep of my heart was fulfilled.
There's a silvery reflection
of the night
on the Bermuda grass
camouflaging him and I,
There's a grey shadow, too
with its apocalyptic appetite,
unveiling us to the preordained
shift in our night sky.
In this near completion
of the crescent's waning phase,
I feel our fingers intertwined
amidst the ruining flames.
The epidermis of our skin
feels cold,
as we talk about the desertion
of Tughlaqbad Fort.
The metamorphosis of calligraphic signs
in the night sky
with our talks of abandonment and ruination,
approach us with its apocalyptic appetite.
While walking down the Naughara alley,
in the Chandani Chowk,
on the night before New Moon’s Day,
we, with our hands intertwined,
talked about the history witnessed
by the doors of these homes,
the whispers of stories heard by them,
and the stories they were part of.
We, with our hands intertwined,
talked about the nine doors
our hearts had chosen to walk into-
The fleeting moment of reflection,
the seven stages of love,
and the rebirth.
We, with our hands intertwined,
talked about the stories reuniting us,
the stories we'd be a part of,
and the stories we'd give
birth to.
The moment came!
The sky was deserted by the moon,
I feared desertion, too.
But if my Kohl can overpower
the darkness of night,
Our love can, too, overpower
the darkness of fate.
It was different this time.
It was love.
It was power.
It was freedom.
It was the power of love
that welcomed Freedom.