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……..