was a respected language in Hindustan,
I would have called my poem "Yaadein" (Memories)
By Anupama Bhargava
since it is not I take my bearings out to
But I can't, completely.
It appears to me that I have started from
the center of a moment that I know is going to stay.
Suspended, thus, are some of my memories
lingering like audience in disbelief at the end of a play.
Others are no better. They are like residue
on yellow chattering teeth, sucking
natural light when ever
possible to flaunt their existence in foreign terms.
But to us Indians it still appears like
meditation to courageous.
Three Hundred Fifty years of struggle and
sacrifice seems to have vanished
in the refusals to except what
The streets are still gray in the light of
If only these memories had a language of
"Yaadein teri aati hain,
Par koi inko zubaan kyun nahi deta?"
If only some day I could find words for