From the Graveyard of Empires and other Poems by Sidra Raihan

From the Graveyard of Empires

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

A Tale of Two Cities

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

Mrs.

When I will build

A home of my own,

There will be a blanket ban

On all festivals

My doormats

Will refuse to bid goodbye

For the colors

Of a rangoli

To make way

On Diwali

You will gawk

At an empty

But rather palatial

16-chair dining table,

With bellies rumbling

For that one bowl of Sheer Qorma,

So,

I will lay out milk

And vermicelli

On the kitchen counter,

Only to repeat the tradition

On Eid 2.0

And you will walk away in embarrassment

Mouth fuming in indignation

When it will be December

The Christmas tree

Would look like a deserted cactus,

Devoid of stars, bulbs

And all that jazz,

You will label me

An atheist,

So be it

What are festivals,

Anywhichways,

Just women cooking all day,

And men calling it a celebration

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About the Poet:

Sidra Raihan is a poet who has performed at various stages, including Kommune, Speaking Souls, Delhi Poetry Slam and Poems India. In 2023, her poem 'Lust For Life' was longlisted for the Wingword Poetry Competition, and she was a semi-finalist for the National Slam Prize of Spill Poetry.