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 misfortunes 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 chases 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 corridor,
