Saturday, February 4, 2017

He was as arrogant as a

Chattarpur farmhouse but 
in the end, I figured he was 
just cluttered, like Adhchini. 
Which I liked. Our beginnings 
were rocky, we held hands,
infrequently, and uneasily, 
like Def Col and Kotla, 
but then, in some years,
often and more breezily, 
like Jangpura & Jangpura 
Extension. All those years,
of romance and apprehension,
he'd held me in his Najafgarh
arms and kissed me like 
Shalimar Bagh. Not that we 
didn't fight like Rajouri, 
crossing each other's Civil
Lines, not that he wasn't at
times distant like Greater
Noida, or quiet like Asola, 
but always, when the worst 
had passed, we returned at 
last, to where we'd been, some
where near Dilshad Garden,
by the blessings of Nizamuddin.