Lahore-1947

The Mughal garden, the Mughal's tomb,
piping hot tea at the Market of Stories;
A busy Sunday argues its way through;
Voices flow, the market din clings to the
bylanes like soot. Women with henna-ed
hands watch camel carts sail by,
in the afternoon haze. Muezzin call and zaffran
smell mingle uncertainly. The engine pants.

Mr. Sen, BA, LLB, barrister , Punjab high court,
gathers his chattel; his Mrs. in the zenana's ;
the Akali men in electric blue turbans, watch;
impassively, their kirpans barely concealed.
Late afternoon thundershower, rare in the northwest,
awakens the sleeping beggar, the heavy drone of
flies ceases, the dogs continue to fuck
in the abandoned car-shade.

But where is Mini? Miss Mini Sen?
She isn't in the zenana's, not with her father's men,
not in the waiting room where a single ceiling fan
stirs the turgid air. Nor at the Wheelers' browsing
her favorite English books.
Mr.Sen with a judge's studied frown scans the station,
wipes the sweat from his colonial arselicker's brow,
rests Bengali, spirited-girl's father's creased forehead
on hand. Yells in belabored Hindustani at the coolies.

So where is Miss Sen? The purple clouds know it :
she's come to bid goodbye to Azmat.
Azmat Khan. Beside her favorite rose bush:
Azmat the resident clown, of Shalimar bagh.
Azmat of the shy lover's voice, of the frail form,
with deep grey Pathan eyes; of quick wit , a
couplet or two always ready at the tip of his tongue,
Azmat, the man that all women love.
Mini is tearful, Azmat all smiling :
"Sure dear, we'll meet again
once the firangs go and trouble clears up,
I'll come to Calcutta to see you again".
They hold hands, Azmat produces a rose
from the folds of his salwar, like some conjuror's trick.

There is a din in the neighboring mohalla.
Angry men in khaki uniform come marching
up the lane. Sly as a fox, alert as a
Qizilbashi warrior, Azmat disappears over a wall;
leaving Mini, awestruck and strangely happy,
once and for all. There is shouting and confusion.
Miss Mini Sen hauled up and taken to her father.


"Where had you been, dear child?"
"We had all been so anxious!"
Mini jumps onto her father's lap and proudly shows
him the rose, as she curls her five-year old fingers
gingerly around its stalk. "I went to say goodbye to Uncle
Azmat, the gardener, father : Rahim, the coachman took me,
and would've brought me back soon!"
Mr.Sen all too relieved, is too tired to scold :
"Azmat?! That lazy fakir!" Mrs. Sen lets her disapproval
be known, as train starts to chug out of station.
A Sufi man with deep grey eyes watches and smiles,
and maybe wipes a tear, as he sees his best friend leave.
He deals in Rumi and Ghalib, Ferdous and Khayyam,
but has read a story, that struck a chord, by Babu Tagore too.
The Akali men sit and watch, still impassively.
Evening nears, as another Sunday, perhaps Lahore's
last calm one, before the storm, draws to a close.