The kabootar khana

The kabootar khaana buzzes

At the junction with

Pigeons willfully

Caging themselves in

The hope of being fed.

In hope of being

Revered

As the plump businessman’s

Ticket to salvation.

To vindicate his salivation.

A thirsty tongue

Lapping up gold and diamonds

And stubby fingers

Caressing pigeon feed.

 

The railings of the the khaana,

Once a rusty red,

Now gleam white in pigeon poop.

 

(Ambassadors of peace ,

Who decided on the poor pigeons?

Now they fly on roof tops

Of the Taj Hotel with black soot

Choking their nostrils,

Blackening their glistening green-blue manes

Now they must wear ear plugs

If they have to nestle on the top

Along with gunshots and grenade shrapnel.)

 

The air smells of damp feathers ,

Grey stench and the smell of stained peace.

 

(Masakalli , sits on the terrace parapet

The white pigeon has its wings clipped.

Vain in white, it sits in Chandni Chowk

Far from black soot, gunshots and freedom)

 

It is a free cage

Just like the maikhaana.

Where he comes,

To cage himself

And relish the anticipation

Of  unchained freedom.

 

Did you see that?

Right there,

The street urchin crosses the street,

With a handful of stolen grains

And takes flight with

The well fed birds.