The heart of the capital city
Blossoms in December days
The fire in the torch at India Gate
Hesitates to burn brightly
The city that spits smoke
Moves on mechanically as usual
When the ‘Paanwala’ in Parliament street
Enquires about my well being
My lips utter ‘fine’ artificially
Malayalam ‘fine’ and Hindi ‘fine’ are different
My language changes
In front of the journalist in Rafi Marg
There, it is the usual ‘what is news’
When I meet the Malayali in Mayur Vihar
My language becomes more artificial
And more that that, dispassionate
There, the Malabarian and Travancorean
Show off their ego in newspaper language
When the Tamilian in Ramakrishnapuram
Calls me ‘Sir’ my answer becomes heavy
In Karol Bagh I have one language
And in Africa Avenue, another
In the posh Safdarjung Enclave
I have ‘apartment style’ language
When I return to my dwelling place
At the end of the day
And when I dream of loneliness
A small parrot chirps inside
The nest of my heart
I held my ears close
It was uttering something
In a feeble voice
Yes, I have heard this voice somewhere
It was the language of my village, of my household
Of my village people, and of my family
But, it is still not coming out through my lips
It has not been coming out for long
Even when I spend my time ‘freely’ with my friends.
By Ismail Meladi
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