A humming word

No, I am not a native. And no, I do not belong here. But I am overwhelmed by the city’s wind that blows pallus and duppattas , skirts and stoles. And skinny women and men.  When the wind blows the city laughs a nd then smiles with boats that row among towers, on architectural tour. The guide, a medium built Caucasian who rolls her silky hair in a ponytail speaks aloud to 50 curious strangers, busy covering their chest with winter coats and shawls. She asks tourists to be seated when they insist on standing with her. She has to focus on the Fire Accident and the city’s famous Pizza in the same breath. The stories she shares fade out  when my aunt begins to whisper. She chooses this time to tell me about a distant cousin who lives across the lake. But I excuse myself to stand at the edge of the boat, where she is afraid to stand. The majesty of the city sparkles in the night when the lights reflect in the lake and the tour guide’s voice becomes clearer and  I learn that ...

The hustle-bustle and hush-rush; traffic lights blinking and city lights, blinding but... shhhh... close your eyes  listen to the dong at the Mozamjahi clock tower --  any hour, short or long at the Salarjung museum, you'd be decked in your best here, wander at the Karachi bakery, jostle with the traffic;  at the Mozamjahi bazaar, you rest the bazaar that once sold attar, pans, groceries, hookahs and fruit Is now a nest of ice cream made of dry fruits close your eyes and be swooned once at one o clock twice at two o clock and 12 times at twelve o' am or noon PC: Live iconic

Fear is an uninvited friend who visits me, occasionally by the dining table he narrates tales of caution – some true, some fiction but we recount together things that once caused bother and we weigh it against reason fear raises its hand, guilty of treason Since he is seated in my home - i smile he hugs me till we forget everything for a while

Mother ambles in the living room of my flat: Left-to-right; Right-to-left.   My flat seems bigger.  I sit by my work-from-home makeshift desk (also my dining table). As she passes by, I watch her lips move but I gaze at my laptop. My resume half complete, I type, Experrrr..  I fidget with the keyboard for 10 seconds before I walk towards her. I ask, What is it?  She says, I am talking to your aunt and detailing the Kakarkaya recipe. I love it. I pause.. look around in my empty flat. I sigh.  Point towards the kitchen.  And pick out the vegetables for us.   ** Work from home   Bottle guard is now redolent  with my deceased aunty       Note: This is written for my dear friend, who now feels like a cousin, dearest Bala. His service to his friends and his family is unparalleled. 

  The dog limps in the lane; another chases it the roads are washed with last night’s rain   a scooter heaving with milk containers, passes by the rag pickers sieve garbage their child gapes at the navy blue sky

I too, sing India  There’s no caste mark smeared on my forehead But I am the one who sits outside your house When food is served; they serve it to me with dread In a throwaway plate. I have seen steel plates from afar. I smile, I laugh, and I uncover the manhole I too, am India. I am damp and soiled; I tie a scarf, and pop my head out of the manhole This is how I earn my bread. I too, am India.  Outside your house. In a corner of the street, Earning scorn and grouse. /For the uninitiated, I too, am America is a poem by Langston Hughes. The title and spirit of the poem is inspired by that./

Sunlight dapples on an antiquated Writing table. From the drawer, semi closed, A rusty nib pen Peeks and twirls On the writing board It taps a letter pad That rumbles And lays morose The ink pen awaits And when the moonlight glitters on the table, the letter pad calls out to the ink pen that feebly walks to the writing pad and writes a poem before slipping into the semi closed drawer