by Arshiya Kausar
In the heart of the old city
this chowk stands
on remnants of the past
emanating the essence
of culture and history
of a country once
undivided.
The buildings
fading
peeling
dirt-ridden,
speaking of art
and architecture
made by the hands of a rich Empire
that merged within the stylized concrete
the secret
to stand the test of Time.
The intoxicating air
of pepper and spice
sends consuming flavours
on smoky winds,
luring natives and outlanders
to taste the traditions of the city
harboured long
by this incessantly demolishing chowk.
And mingled within is the alluring scent
of agarbatti
that seeps in from the chowk’s
dismal graveyard
located so mockingly in the midst
of all commercial pleasures
of the living
that line the streets of the chowk.
Labourers of steel and wood
toil in rhythmic routine
and in neighbourly fashion,
all aligned in a clustered row of shops
downstairs.
And upstairs reside beings of ‘NEWAGE’
who know not how to live without
the music of horns and traffic
on the ever-crowded road,
all living similar and different lives
in one historically forlorn building.
You should see how the chowk
reflects life
each night
as it lights up;
cinemas, outlets, dhabas,
with neon colours
and stringed bulbs
that entice
the bustling people
to roam the chowk’s streets
in some comatose ritual
practiced innately
by citizens of this city.