The bazar of lost generations, two songs  



I returned to my childhood bazar.

It looked past me, a tourist unknown — so did I. 


In glass-walled shops, tiny warm-centers hid from the cold lights.

The dirt was pacing restlessly outside — so was I. 


Motorcycles lined the curb, handlebars rubbing bellies,

They watched passersby like goats “Come, rejoin.” — I declined.


Arrogant mannequins stood still; judgmental stares;

Wearing their worth printed on tags — I had lost mine.


In my car-cell, air recycled leather, exhaust fumes.  

Then mango, lemon and rose emerged — piercing the time.


In the shop, with piled walnuts and drying apples,

my friend dozed among jute bags — as his grandfather once did.

My grandfather would pause, tap, jest; they’d laugh — I dared not. 

The language was no longer mine. 


*** ***



Sweat-blinding sun, air dead-dry in hot inhale.

You wrapped me in the marble’s cool-moist exhale.

O Taj, the bazar sells domes — cheap plastic,  fake.

But, you smile in Julys, offering shade, in a latticed veil.


***

My father, his shop: one soul — gave the gift of,

Cricket shots, school laughs: a rich kid’s drift-off.

Clashed with bazar’s rhythms — clean, scan, restock;

In our one-room life, envy was what I fed off.


***

At work, in love, and now as father, parts stay hidden untold, 

My envy dims their future; were my father and his, once bold?

Bazar,  make me whole; resell me, without the stone.

Perhaps, I’ll fill your void: I bridge Taj to the plastic dome.


*** ***