From the Graveyard of Empires and other Poems by Sidra Raihan

When the old man at the Afghan souk in Bhogal weighs
The last pound of Kulcha Khatai for me,
I want to ask,
‘How are things back home?

But then, I decide against it

I wonder though,
Since when
Did our conversations with people
Become so sanitized,
Galvanised,
And tokenised,
That we are always afraid to adulterate
The personal with the political

It is in these moments,
My Nani’s words ring home,
‘Jo udhaar ki bhaasha bolte hain,
Unke khayal bhi udhaar ke hi
Rah jaate hain’

Much to her chagrin,
Angrezi is the only zubaan
That my tongue
Has found a refuge in,
And after all these years,
I am afraid,
I have inherited
The language of a people,
That use so many sorry’s, please and thank-you’s
As diplomatic arsenals
That even genuine apologies
Feel like a leash on the collar

‘Fatima beti’
His half-baked Hindustani,
Giving his thick Pashtun accent away,
Interrupts my thoughts,

‘I am Sidra, Uncle’
I want to correct him,
But he has picked a name for me
Like I am one of his daughters
And nothing can change his stubborn mind
He calls my sister,
‘Parikam’
A little fairy,
And I want to fight with him on that

‘Maine aapke liye kuch khubaani bhi pack kar di hai
Aaap apne doston mein baat dena’
With a half-moon smile,
I turn my gaze away,
I have nothing to offer him,
Except for embarrassed eyes

Oh,
Dear Punjab

When I hear you speak
I think of
Honey dripping
From a lover’s lips

On his tongue,
Hot piping chai
Becomes
Chaa,
A monosyllable
Of
Chaahat

Making me hungry,
For all the places
I have never been

In the reflection
Of Chenab,
I watch the minarets
Of Saheb and Baadshahi
Pay salaam to one another
I remember you
As the sweetness of pinni laddoos
And mango lassis,
I don’t remember you,
Drugged,
Dying,
And debt-ridden

But you don’t love me enough,
You scoundrel,
Poisoning my skies
All winter,
I swallow your smog,
As a whole,
Without a word,
All at once.

Aapki Amaanat,
Delhi