Delhi- II

Once again, like always, I’ve been successful to become Unsuccessful. But this time, I’m regretful for my regrets. For the past few days I was enjoying something which didn’t make me happy and today I’ve nothing to enjoy but I’m happy.

The Tomb -

It is no less than a fort but it is a graveyard, where buried memories are living with history, protected from time. Memories and History, they both are inseparable, like Delhi and me. Those who are buried here also thought the same. Delhi laughs! I can hear her voice; she is amused at my thought. I visualise the curve of her lips and smile. We both know.


Like other graveyards, this place doesn’t makes you sad. There is something in the grandiose tomb, which is surrounded by lush gardens, that makes you think. May be, it is the place itself, so vast, so quiet that for once you forget all your sorrow, aspirations and perhaps realise the presence of god (if there is any), in my case, the understanding of unsuccessfulness gets more clearer.

The graveyard itself questions – Is death a mark of unsuccessfulness, is it an attempt to be in the annals of history, an unsuccessful attempt to remain in this mortal world. I look for Delhi. The wind is quiet, I guess she agrees with me. She knows I’m an emotional fool so she wears the drape of silence. I understand.




Humayun and me have two things in common. He loved Delhi and I do. He was unsuccessful to enjoy her true beauty and I am destined to be so. There are two differences as well – He won Delhi, I submitted to her. He lost Delhi and I never owned her. Delhi, she is standing behind me…….smirking!

Humayun lost Delhi twice, some historians’ say that he was an opium addict. I think otherwise. If he had been so he would have never come back. There is something strange in Delhi.
To someone who doesn’t know her, she would appear like a whore, she is the queen of whosoever wins her. But for her true lovers she is an addiction. An addiction that made Humayun risk his life, an addiction that I am trying to resist.

Some may give names to my Delhi, I don’t mind, Delhi also doesn’t mind swear words, they are a part of her culture. They always were. I close my eyes and I see her, she is not looking at me. She is lost perhaps thinking of Humayun and of her other admirers. I get jealous for a second but realise the futility, nah, perhaps unsuccessfulness, but of whom, mine or hers?


The tomb has two minarets that try to kiss the sky. The white dome spells peace. There are graves all around. It is said that Humayun died when he stumbled on the stairs of his library. He was in a hurry to answer the prayer’s call.

To reach the main dome, you have to go through the Bu Halima and the Arab serai gate. Before you reach them one may have a look at the carpet of bats spread on the stairs of Isa Khan tomb. But if you are game enough and decide to walk upstairs, there is a wonderful view to enjoy.

I was with my friend to whom I owe special thanks. With her I am myself. No pretensions and no expectations. Without her, I would have never been here. As we two friends walk out of this place, we promise to come again.

A promise, like the one Humayun made, the one which Monsoon did, a promise which I fancy to make. Delhi, she never promises anything. It is not her fault. She is not to blame because she is genuine. It is her nature. She never deserts but she is never yours.

She is an enigma and to make her yours is just like building a tomb. An unsuccessful attempt to maintain your presence in this mortal world. Humayun, he died in her arms. I will not, I plan to remain unsuccessful……..

In-dependence?

Well, this is an off beat stuff, I have no clues but I’m posting it cause I like it. There are hundred of things going in my mind. To believe, may bring doom and not to believe pains me every night. Do I want to be independent or I’m becoming in-dependant? Grammar, it kills me slowly. And Unsuccessfulness shares my bed. I don’t know, may be this sum it up – “He who is not with me is against me, and he who does not gather with me, scatters.”

Even the tiny trots know that this is not another, regular morning assembly. For, they have been witnesses to the countless rehearsals and today it is show time. Their parents, standing at one end of the ground, on which there are symmetrical lines drawn, are trying to identify their wards amongst similarly dressed students. Tricolours of all size and shape, is the only similarity within dissimilarity.


The young ones, who perhaps can boast of remembering one or two nursery rhymes seem lost yet excited. Running around, involved in playful games – a tricolour trying to catch another one. Those in their teens are mostly in-groups, some wear a disinterested look while others chattering away to glory. But they all have assembled – standing, pushing against each other and reluctantly trying to form a queue. For this was not another, regular morning assembly.


The three colours overshadow everything around – the brown school building, the blue sky and the looks on each face. Amidst chaos they finally manage to form a queue. It didn’t take long. They are used to it, a small head followed by a larger one. The length of the tricolour banner slinging across their shoulder also varies accordingly.


A drumbeat goads the animated crowd into silence. Each face has an anticipated look. The younger lot was struggling to communicate, while the elders who by now are more or less perfect with non-verbal communication are sharing smiles. They know what to expect as against the newly schooled; who break lines to catch a glimpse of what’s happening at the podium.


The podium is crowded like a railway station. A small group tethered by their music teacher who is trying to balance the harmonium. Two girls, perhaps in the final year of their school life, are dressed up in a tricolour saree. One is holding a tray and another managing the mike. Amongst is the principal, somehow managing to stand on his feet.


The girl holding the mike welcomes all and gives a brief description of what to expect ahead. A small skit by senior secondary students, a parade by all the houses, lead by the respective house captains, an aerobic show under the aegis of school’s physical trainer. The principle speech is after the flag hoisting ceremony, which would start the Independence Day celebrations.


She further announces that the tricolour would now be unfurled followed by national anthem. The men-in-waiting in the last row of the students assembled look expectantly toward the girls standing on the podium. To their dismay, the principle moves towards the pole on which flag is to be hoisted. The music teacher gives some directions to his troupe.


A string is pulled and music fills the atmosphere. Suddenly everything changes, a sense of responsibility dawns, which cuts across age and gender. The back gets straightened and the head rises, as if communicating with the sky. The song is about the great country, its land and people – the anthem of the nation. Each note, like an adrenaline rush. Surging a new found patriotism, which wasn’t there a few moments ago, which may not be present after this but for now….Jai hai, Jai hai, Jai hai.

How Unsuccessfull? I leave this for you to decide for I still stand my ground, though unsuccessfully……

Monsoon....

The street dogs look for shelter and so do the humans. The privacy of the house is drained out on the streets and the clouds rejoice on their victory with occasional thunders. Small flotillas, made of paper appear in every nook and corner. Some of them sail to glory, whereas most succumb to constant pestering by the rain. The build-up is gradual and visible. Black clouds are not boisterous in their claims, they deliver what they promise.


Scorched for months, reeling under heat waves from all directions, Delhi yearns for Monsoon. And, so she deserves. Clouds promised her long ago – they will come twice and shower their love to her. So every year July onwards, they start their journey towards the Himalayas and return to the Indian Ocean or Bay of Bengal during November-December. Thus they meet her twice and whenever they do, they make love. A passionate, eternal yet platonic love. For the Sky and the Earth never meet and there is definitely no horizon. I don’t know why people call this Monsoon, when it’s just fulfilling a promise. Delhi knows that people keep their promises with her. And, I also fancy to make one.


It starts slowly, a drop here and two there. Some one would look at the grey sky. Then the wait starts, for the onslaught, which sometimes come as a surprise. Like the Mongols, lightning speed. It is difficult to separate nature from humans; they both are inter-linked, like clouds and drops. All you need is a lightning.

Delhi earnestly waits for Monsoon, she keeps talking about it. She gives it various names, both in regional language and that of firangs. She loves black clouds they are hunks - tall, dark, and handsome. I appreciate anything that Delhi waits for, because she waits for none. But, Black Clouds are like playboys. They quench her thirst, cool her down but expose her.
Newspapers run disgraceful pictures of my city. I hate it and it hurts me. For me Delhi is very special, in fact very-very special. But for Delhi, she never thinks about me and why she should? She got so many to think about her and vice-versa. My existence is a farce, a lie re-told to justify my pale figure in this materialistic world. And with the first shower, I am drained of to non-existence.


But after the rain, she glows. It takes her no time to get back to her own self. She radiates like a newly wed woman. Her features become more sharp and I, Oh I !......just fall in love with her all over again, and again. My anger, frustration vanishes when I see her and I am overtaken by a strange sense – to posses her and take care of her. Alas, I know, Delhi can never be mine. She chooses on her own and similarly dispossesses. Chauhans, Tuglaqs, Mughals, British…they all loved her equally. They adored her and put in efforts to adorn her. They all now rest peacefully in the pages of history and Delhi…..Oh she is the past, the present and the future.


I try to understand Delhi .She laughs at me, mocks me, she makes it clear that I don’t stand a chance. My Delhi has got so much to say but she is quiet, she wants you to think, you to understand, you to feel and then she will reveal herself, bit by bit or may be not at all.

There are no threads, after every dead-end, there has to be a new start, all afresh. She doesn’t play hide and seek but she wants you to notice and this may take ages. But like me, once you are on the trail then it is impossible to return, unless she makes you leave. It’s an addiction; you cannot leave it only death will part you away. If you shed the baggage of being yourself and try, may be she will let you close but than, like me, you can end Unsuccessful. I am destined to be so and for once, just once I regret being Unsuccessful…….