Yes, I remember the cold weather
in Delhi. I see lower lips cracked
in half; noses raw from blowing;
Janpath
dark at six; dead coffee houses, ghosts
sipping hot, chlorinated slop, yes,
I remember winter in Delhi.
And the rain, the wet, I remember
that well. The old photo of a bus
drowned at Minto Bridge that
the Statesman
carried once every monsoon, rainy
day holidays, the Jumna flooding,
oh, I remember Delhi coming down.
But whenever I dream of Delhi
I see cyclists wavering in the heat,
roads softened by the sun,
orange-haired
beggars barefoot in the tar, Lutyens’
green avenues, their still, vacant
shade…
In my dreams of Delhi, it’s always
June.
