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| The Red Fort |
A day in Dehlee
Dehlee’s joggers are the first to wake,
Running past old tombs maybe at the Hauz Khaz Lake,
Then cometh the sabzi wallahs on their ponies or hand drawn carts,
Aaloo bees rupaiya kilo, bhindi chowbeez rupaiya,
Not too far behind is the fruit man,
Kele, angoor, santre aur aam.
Still later when by the watch it’s ten,
‘KABAADIWALEEY’ is the cry you’ll hear,
Every day these men cycle up and down,
Help recycle all the newspaper waste in town.
After this when the time is noon,
You might hear a faint twang, twang, twang,
Signalling the arrival of the mattress man,
Playing upon his Jew’s Harp,
He’ll open up your mattress and fluff it up.
Taaze taaze phalse,
Thande meethe phalse,
Shrieks the hoarse voice of a white turbaned man,
While behind him you might hear,
A strange dhun played on the been,
O! Just hear them come, the snake charmers,
They bring with them scorpions and cobras,
That’ll amuse your children.
Maybe instead of the charmers might come the dancers,
With their bears and monkeys,
To the sound of the dumaroo,
They’ll do their little jig and jump through hoops.
Sometimes they come,
The Saadhus and the Sufi mystics,
Once came a man and an owl, with prophetic messages,
Said they descended from the misty Hindu Kush,
As he sat in the bazaar in a meditative trance,
Answering your queries about your future or finance.
Oh! And how may you forget the dhobiwalas,
They are the secret to Delhi’s clean clothes,
Those shirts’ and salwars’ prefect crease,
Are a result of paying the Dhobi-boy’s fees.
By now it’s evening,
The camembert Delhi sun is now a big red orb,
Your neighbours might come over for a cup of chai,
While you sit and rest upon your charpoy.
The moon has risen, and the sun has set,
But the chowkidar isn’t ready to sleep just yet,
Tuk, Tuk bangs his stick on the pavement,
Ready to warn passing thieves of his guarding commitment.
With every passing hour he grows dreary,
And chowkidari till six a.m had makes him quite weary.
But now again they do rise through the thick mist and fog,
The runners on their early morning jog.
The whole rigmarole begins once again,
And as it has now for centuries past,
Every hour brings with it a different visitor,
And you can be quite content just being a spectator.
This is Delhi,
(Yeh Dilli hai),
Aur yeh sheher nahi yeh mehafil hai,
Every day the play repeats itself once again,
The characters may change but the script’s the same.
Mukund Palat Rao (October 17, 2010)
Dehlee’s joggers are the first to wake,
Running past old tombs maybe at the Hauz Khaz Lake,
Then cometh the sabzi wallahs on their ponies or hand drawn carts,
Aaloo bees rupaiya kilo, bhindi chowbeez rupaiya,
Not too far behind is the fruit man,
Kele, angoor, santre aur aam.
Still later when by the watch it’s ten,
‘KABAADIWALEEY’ is the cry you’ll hear,
Every day these men cycle up and down,
Help recycle all the newspaper waste in town.
After this when the time is noon,
You might hear a faint twang, twang, twang,
Signalling the arrival of the mattress man,
Playing upon his Jew’s Harp,
He’ll open up your mattress and fluff it up.
Taaze taaze phalse,
Thande meethe phalse,
Shrieks the hoarse voice of a white turbaned man,
While behind him you might hear,
A strange dhun played on the been,
O! Just hear them come, the snake charmers,
They bring with them scorpions and cobras,
That’ll amuse your children.
Maybe instead of the charmers might come the dancers,
With their bears and monkeys,
To the sound of the dumaroo,
They’ll do their little jig and jump through hoops.
Sometimes they come,
The Saadhus and the Sufi mystics,
Once came a man and an owl, with prophetic messages,
Said they descended from the misty Hindu Kush,
As he sat in the bazaar in a meditative trance,
Answering your queries about your future or finance.
Oh! And how may you forget the dhobiwalas,
They are the secret to Delhi’s clean clothes,
Those shirts’ and salwars’ prefect crease,
Are a result of paying the Dhobi-boy’s fees.
By now it’s evening,
The camembert Delhi sun is now a big red orb,
Your neighbours might come over for a cup of chai,
While you sit and rest upon your charpoy.
The moon has risen, and the sun has set,
But the chowkidar isn’t ready to sleep just yet,
Tuk, Tuk bangs his stick on the pavement,
Ready to warn passing thieves of his guarding commitment.
With every passing hour he grows dreary,
And chowkidari till six a.m had makes him quite weary.
But now again they do rise through the thick mist and fog,
The runners on their early morning jog.
The whole rigmarole begins once again,
And as it has now for centuries past,
Every hour brings with it a different visitor,
And you can be quite content just being a spectator.
This is Delhi,
(Yeh Dilli hai),
Aur yeh sheher nahi yeh mehafil hai,
Every day the play repeats itself once again,
The characters may change but the script’s the same.
Mukund Palat Rao (October 17, 2010)
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| LEFT: The Safdarjung Tomb (Safdarjang ka Maqbara) RIGHT: The Qutab Minar |
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| The Rashtrapati Bhavan |
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| The ruins near the Hauz Khaz Lake |
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| The Jama Masjid |
Maybe it was all part of the play script written with Delhi as the protagonist and all the transformations that she has undergone. The poem is an expression of some of the reasons why I love Delhi.
P.S: All photos courtesy Mukund P Rao
