The ochre air irritates
The tongue.Dust thickens it,
The squalid city groans

Under the loo, familiar
On an ordinary afternoon in May.
It’s a cemetery of stones

I see everywhere :
Khaljis, Tughluqs, Lodis, Mughals –
They stick to its face
Like turds. When Ghazni knocked
or was it Clive? We paid off
old scores in our backyard.

Eight hundred years of blood letting
Has made ennuchs of us,
Once for all unsettled

our minds.Now, atop Himalaya
uncertainly grins
an omnius skull, the sun.

Time rests his hand
On my shoulder. Old, I look
every illusion in the face.

My fingers are stiff :
I can’t write even two lines.
Letters come in from all sides.

I lay them aside. The days
collapse on the pile.
The hands that wrote them

Return,at leisure,to knock
On my inexpectant door of churiwalan
The present is troubled

To distraction. There is no respite
I turn a page : the book lies open.
Or, remember drowning myself
In the arms of that slut
Zohra Jan in an effort
To blunt the pain.
‘How can anyone, ‘ I ask ‘ forsake
Delhi and its lanes?’

The Angrez impudently rub salt
In our wounds. Our pride
Bites the dust;
Still pullulate the decrepit ruins.

Now, blood trickles down
The Jamuna, while the emperor
Flies indecisive kites.

Or mourns, in verse his discomfiture.
Listen Zauq, after you,
Who is left to speak of Delhi?

Short of wringing of neck,
I try every trick of Phrase
To cosmetize the blank page:

It refuses to improve. Now,
I prefer a to brazen speech
Knock the metaphor out of it.

A Brhaminy kite preserves
The afternoon, as I write this,
Near thing distract me –
The Lickspittel town,
Its back street putrid with empire :
Qutab and Purana-qila,
Scrap of paper blown about me
Day after day (their distant
tongue rasps my verse) –
 throw dusts in the eyes. Will
Indraprastha rise again? The Jamuna
has forever covered its spoors.
Life, at forty-five,
Is a breath of fresh air.
The children are grow up.

Their eyes hone
my nights : I soften to the touch.
The wife keeps house.

From afar shapes the poems
till they become familiar as prayera.
To be oneself, stir no postures,

On rare occasions stumble upon
The blessins of simplicity –
I couldn’t ask for more.

                               – PARTHASARATHY

The poem “Delhi” by Parthasarathy delves into the current state of the city of Delhi, presenting a vivid and poignant depiction of its environmental and social conditions. The poet begins by describing the oppressive atmosphere with ochre air and thick dust, creating a squalid and groaning city. The reference to historical rulers, including Khaljis, Tughluqs, Lodis, and Mughals, suggests the weight of the past on the present.

The poem reflects on the impact of eight hundred years of bloodshed, leading to a sense of disillusionment and unsettling of the people’s minds. The Himalayas, described as an ominous skull, symbolize uncertainty, and the sun grins down on the city. Time, personified, rests a hand on the poet’s shoulder, highlighting the aging process and the confrontation with illusions.

The poet expresses personal frustration with physical limitations, such as stiff fingers preventing him from writing. Letters from all sides pile up, and the poet finds no respite, turning to memories of seeking solace in the arms of a woman named Zohra Jan.

The verses touch on the historical impact of British rule, emphasizing the impudent actions of the English rulers rubbing salt in wounds and causing the pride of the people to bite the dust. The ruins of Delhi still pullulate, and blood trickles down the Jamuna, while the emperor engages in indecisive kite-flying.

The poet laments the loss of voices that could speak for Delhi, invoking the Urdu poet Zauq. Despite attempts to beautify the blank page with metaphors, the poet finds resistance, opting for direct and brazen speech.

The poem shifts to a reflection on the present troubles in Delhi, with Qutab and Purana-qila mentioned as contributing to the city’s putrid state. The poet questions whether Indraprastha, an ancient city associated with purity and prosperity, will rise again.

The concluding lines touch on the poet’s personal life, noting the breath of fresh air at forty-five, the growth of his children, and the shaping of poems from afar until they become as familiar as prayers. The poem ends on a note of contentment, expressing a preference for simplicity and an acceptance of life’s blessings.

“Delhi” encapsulates the poet’s reflections on the historical, social, and personal dimensions of the city, weaving together themes of decay, nostalgia, frustration, and hope for rejuvenation.