A Day In The Life: Late in the Evening

The stars lined up obligingly,
The moon sang a thousand tunes;
There is an old garden,
overrun with weeds
behind the place:
a retreat
further

than the old mansion itself is,
an anachronistic rift
in time, vantage point to
hide in, and watch in
secret the world
as it flits
away.

Hidden in pools of light, like ghosts
we wandered, precarious
footholds and crumbling walls.
Somebody lived here
Once, long ago
(Before you
and I

trespassed into their spectral home)
And had memories older
than us and ours, of hands
clasped and promises
made while looking
into the
moonlight.

We were not the first trespassers:
The city had crept up round
the house long ago,
by degrees, Metro
Rail being the last
to encroach
upon

The space that surrounds it, a space
where Ahmed Ali’s Delhi
breathes; where fear and desire
collude, and whisper
your dark secrets
back to you.
To you

And I, whose life is measured out
with coffee spoons, and looks like
it always will, unless
I find the courage
to see this place
demolished –
a dream

destroyed – the building is condemned,
Like the fate of the ghosts that
silhouette the skyline
on Barakhamba
Road, late in the evening,
sometimes.