Huzrat kothi, your home
another minor minaret
lost to history and Mughal nobility
to a stampede of life, moments and memories.

Days and nights in old Delhi
have always been streets that have weathered
and a torn sky that has overgrown to people
hangs on pegs of tombstone drying its tatters
the sun burns its way and a piercing June wind
a seller's voice
mangoes and utensils
tamarinds and jaggery
clothes and clothes…

Oh! belief and rain
I spy a
white salwar and dupatta
sheltered by a pock marked door
ghungroos jingled a runaway tread
in a smile and an aroma of familiarity
Ammijaan's voice calling you back
a muezzin’s cry restraining from a nearby mosque…

I had once held to storms, seasons
and shadows in stained glass windows
as a hundred pigeons took off to nowhere from your loft
that day.

I sat on steps,
footprints tracing
a tremor
of your eyes
sifting edges in a

I had found
that day. 

– Dr. Amitabh Mitra
June 12, 2005