The city is still mine.
I sneaked it from my grandfather’s diary

holding his finger, when the morning azan
throbbed at our door.

Its street is the vendor’s junk food of words, fried
with a smattering of chilies and garnished with Punjabi.

Words drop into another’s words.
The city keeps a tighter lingual embrace
and suddenly unclasps beyond the borders of courtesy.

Tales of elopement and wedding couplets
mix well with the cow dung dross of the Ravi.

Rough but innocuous, it’s ultimately a decent courtesan,
well-versed in the art of betel-leaf chewing
and garlands of night blooming jasmine.
(She danced with and without anklets.
Her spidery luxury was uncased.)

Sometimes, the dust storms hurt the eyes
and history is censored, behind the dying fort.

Though lips are dried with heat
it lingers as if ghazal is brewed in wine.

On the dusk-dabbed horizon
a cordless kite plummets,
at the mercy of its chasers,
chase it, hunt it.