At Hazrat Nizamuddin
in Delhi
the dervishes danced
in a trance
frescoes of Mughal architecture raced
past them
moments turned alive
once again
The blind qawwal suddenly
spoke: there is a storm
there is a storm
turning his head
in a scatter
his black turban fell
dervishes too fell on the ground
I heard the faint galloping of horses
outside
Hazrat Nizamuddin too
whispered something
In the aroma of your itr
And touching of our cheeks
We ran in the maddening
sun
You forgot the hijab
A sudden wind of your long hair imprisoned us
on a narrow cobbled street
Becoming one
With you and many such long-forgotten
secrets
Remembering this again
Will be just an
Excuse on any other
day
as Ghalib said:
Hazaaron khwahishein aisi ki har khwahish pe dam nikle
Bahut nikle mere armaan lekin phir bhi kam nikle
I have a thousand yearnings, each one afflicts me
Many of them were fulfilled for sure, although not enough
