8. Who am I?

One evening mother Sitting on the doorstep told me: Faquir, do what you will, but perform the rites of eleventh day for Mahbub Subhani. After sixty turns to her life she still holds on to damp superstitions. Another time she had casually remarked: ‘Son, they can’t marry into ours. We belong to Kanhopatra’s lineage.’ (Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please!) Those blank evenings saw me say yes both times: the first one inside the threshold, the second from outside. “Who really am I?” is the question that I chew upon, like a dried up bone after tearing up 26 pages of my free ride existence. By way of answer, drip the drops of human saliva shaping a line of zero like barren clouds.

7. The mourning

The Banyan tree In search of shade Holding close to its chest The yellowing leaves That speak of the lost ages. *** The scorching light of bulbs Shimmers up every leaf, That hangs in patches, And gets drunk On silly romantic tunes of film songs. *** The idols of holy pirs Keep company with The whistling youth Dancing in procession Passing through the shade of Opium. *** Oh, Lord Almighty When was this fantastic manner Of mourning Taught to your followers?