The Nawabs

by S. A. Hamid

We live on echoes of glory
that have dulled our senses
like a paralytic stroke
making us invalids.

The dilapidated houses
empty safe-lockers
promissory notes, court decrees
foretell complete ruin.

But the sultry dancing-girl
the music of the sarangi and the ghungroo
and her coquetry
is still our haemoglobin.

My mother looks at my father's faded photographs,
the insignia, the titles
and laughs wistfully
even as she cries.

17-Sep-2014

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