Your body rubbed with mine,
covered with thick fabric spores in it;
I wore the fine cashmere woven by mother-
Your arms rubbed mine
Brushing my nose with your musk masculine fragrance
Your eyes had a determined stare
A stare of will
of hard work,
Labour of the body;
Your thighs apart from each other
A giant bag peeping in between
You pulled it while getting down.
Maybe I will never see you again,
Maybe you mix with the nameless crowd of Chandni chowk,
The Muslim cap of your father
Whose pointed finger made you sit beside me
Will float like a ghost when Chandni chowk will be empty,
With no man floating around;
You would pull your heavy bag
With those muscles stretched,
A feat of strength
O God of desire!
The marks on your fingers
Speak the spilled blood once pouring.
You have poured your fragrance onto me
The saltiness of the Arabian Sea,
the Cardamoms of the Nilgiris,
The Attars from Istanbul’s markets.
You get down at Chandni Chowk.
I continue travelling.

I must attach herewith that this is the first poem by me where Dilli peeps in. Maybe because I’m falling for the city. Slowly but surely.

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