I miss Delhi...

And a story drifts on the streets of Delhi,

that when somebody asked Ghalib his address
Ghalib simply said
Delhi would be enough.

I miss the mornings
when winter pours on the streets.
I miss the
endless cups of morning tea.

The fog, the serpentine shapes
emitted from my mouth.
The miles of books
on the streets of Daryaganj

and the shopkeeper peeping
with his sublime eyes,
unfathomable layers of wool
covering the rest of his body.

I miss the very breath of Delhi.
The fine courtly Urdu lost in the
whirlwind of time, lost in the
generations of Old Delhi karigars.

What I miss, is the churlish, rough
Urdu, sharp on the tongues of
Jama Masjid's kebab seller,
sharp on the tongue of Chandni Chowk's sweetmeat seller.

And what else,
do I need to write?
I know it,you know it,
even Delhi's mystical air knows it.

That I miss being with you,
I miss, what would have been
long walks in hazy evenings.
When the moon refuses to come out of mist.