The smell is invasive,
The second coming of Timurids.
Sesame seeds popping in hot oil,
The sound of musketfire.
Copper, silver, ivory and Gold.
Fanned in brilliant battle array.
"Chinaman! O, chinaman!
Namaste! Chinaman!
Step over here,
Examine my wares."
A rough hand, around my arm,
Plucks me like a pigeon from the flock.
Thick arms and barrel chest,
Underneath the tattered banyan,
Tucked a battering ram.
He opens his palms,
In a practiced flourish,
"Look here Chinaman.
Our's is a humble shop,
Its wooden bones soaked in history."
Jalebis the likes,
That adorned the lobes of Anarkali.
Incense burn like pyres of Chittor,
Atop coconuts the size of canonballs,
That struck down her danuting walls.
Jamuns weighed with price of gold,
Milk cakes, barfees, halwas and puddings,
Sitting helplessly against parthian flies.
"Look you here chinaman.
These footprints caked in hardened clay.
The begum herself stepped here,
And fed her noble face."
He crosses his arm before his chest,
His brows locked in a frown.
Perhaps unhappy that the pigeon,
Too hesitant to peck.
"Look here chinaman.
Have you ever seen colours such as these?
What stays your hand chinaman?
Come now, take a pick."
His throat tightens like sinew,
And lets fly a streak of violent red.
The spittoon resounds with a "tunk",
Testimony to the accuracy,
That won the mughals her many victories.
"What will it be. My chinaman? What will it be?"
Time holds no sway here.
Men may wear steel mail,
Silk robes, cotton shirts or denim jeans.
But the chowk always remains.
So here i was,
Stuck in a limbo,
With a warrior clad in a battle- worn vest.
Like a frightened mouse,
I made a squeak,
"Maaf karna! I am diabetic."
I love how descriptive this poem is. All of us have seen this happen to our friends, in some form or the other. I love the ending the most because of how the fact that it acknowledges the strength of respect, and sarcasm, that one may or may not understand. You should publish this!
ReplyDeleteThe way the content and form of the last line abruptly ends the poem is hilarious!
ReplyDeleteIt's soo hard not to laugh at this! - Shayan
ReplyDeleteFunny. Does the work well. Work on your enjambments i.e. line breaks/run-on lines. Use them to your advantage. Otherwise some lines run the risk of being clunky. Also the allusions in the poem are well made - Parthian, Timurid, Anarkali, Chittor etc.. They create the long-duree of the Chowk seamlessly. Which makes the following lines at the end redundant: "Time holds no sway here. / Men may wear steel mail / silk robes, cotton shirts or denim jeans. / But the chowk always remains. / So here I was, / Stuck in a limbo, /
ReplyDeleteWith a warrior clad in a battle-worn vest." These set of lines run the risk of a clunky exoticizing commentary of the Old-Delhi-as-locked-in-time-variety, whereas the rest of the poem is light-hearted and animated. I would let those lines go. Too anxious to wrap up with a flourish.
Chinaman in Chandni Chowk
The smell is invasive,
the second coming of Timurids.
Sesame seeds popping in hot oil,
the sound of musketfire.
Copper, silver, ivory and gold
fanned in brilliant battle array.
"Chinaman! O, Chinaman!
Namaste! Chinaman!
Step over here
examine my wares."
A rough hand around my arm
plucks me like a pigeon from the flock.
Thick arms and barrel chest.
Underneath the tattered banyan
tucked a battering ram.
He opens his palms
in a practiced flourish,
"Look here Chinaman.
Our's is a humble shop.
Its wooden bones soaked in history."
Jalebis the likes
that adorned the lobes of Anarkali
incense burn like pyres of Chittor
atop coconuts the size of canonballs
that struck down her danuting walls
Jamuns weighed with price of gold
Milk cakes, barfees, halwas and puddings
sitting helplessly against parthian flies.
"Look you here Chinaman,
these footprints caked in hardened clay.
The Begum herself stepped here
and fed her noble mouth."
He crosses his arm before his chest
his brows locked in a frown
perhaps unhappy that the pigeon
is too hesitant to peck.
"Look here Chinaman,
have you ever seen colours such as these?
What stays your hand Chinaman?
Come now, take a pick."
His throat tightens like sinew
and lets fly a streak of violent red.
The spittoon resounds with a "tunk"
testimony to the accuracy
that won the Mughals their many victories.
"What will it be, my Chinaman? What will it be?"
Like a frightened mouse
against a battle-worn elephant,
I squeaked "Maaf karna! I am diabetic."