Draped in Ancient Shadows: Five Poems by Laila Brahmbhatt
Photo: Karan Madhok
‘On the city’s edge, where destiny echoes, / hope crawled through cracks. / Even roses in New Delhi / orphan their thorns.’
Yesterday’s Evening Sky and the Flames of Candles
I called my beloved
across the salted seas.
He asked me to sketch
the wild roses outside his window.
“Be patient,” he said,
when the thorns pierce me.
His voice trembled
like cicadas in a thunderstorm.
The cry of cicadas
ripped through the air.
Neither heard what the other said
still, it was a dialogue
the tongue could savor.
*
Leaving Me Behind Where Are You Going
A mailman gathers love notes
left at a cemetery,
near the field of wildflowers.
He opens a few
under the open sky.
“I searched for your scent
behind monsoon curtains,”
someone wrote.
Another complained,
“Mango is still unripe
in our garden.”
Someone pleaded:
“Bring my moth-eaten pashmina
in a champagne-colored suitcase.”
One request
was impossible to fulfill:
“To sing the half-written love song,
inked in ancient calligraphy.”
Someone asked,
“Did you have time
to read my poems?”
The mailman
left the letters at the cemetery
and walked away
like clouds in mid-autumn.
*
Lal Qila
When I arrived in New Delhi from Ranchi,
a crescent moon hung above the railway station.
Passengers swarmed like bleeding pomegranate seeds,
multicolored suitcases trailing tangled limbs.
Whenever I wandered the bustling lanes,
a crowd gathered: shopkeepers, landlords, aunties in nighties.
They huddled to announce the breaking news:
girls seen with boyfriends outside a nightclub,
interrogated by uniformed cops.
An alley of humanity condensed into satire:
gazes pinned to girls’ cleavage
like overdue rent pressed deep in the landlords’ pockets.
A vulture stood guard, searching for those not from Delhi:
Biharis, mocked for their “lack of culture.”
Northeasterners, called outsiders.
Eyelashes, labeled “Made in China.”
Nepali women, “too free.”
Eviction notices served.
Even chimney smoke drifted freer.
The city simmered like milk in a vast container,
waiting to boil,
to kill invisible germs.
On the city’s edge, where destiny echoes,
hope crawled through cracks.
Even roses in New Delhi
orphan their thorns.
*
Each strand a letter from beloved who cannot return
I open and look at
my wedding album.
I had hair as black
as the mole on my left chin.
I kept brushing it
day and night,
straightening it, curling it,
braiding it, unbraiding it,
ceaselessly,
like a woman on her day
off from chores.
As I age,
a few strands of my hair
look like three layers
of wedding cake.
I don’t brush it anymore,
afraid it would fall apart
like crumbs of cake.
Now I let the moon
write my beloved’s name
in each strand.
*
A City of Dust Lit Sunlight
I was in Kolkata two years back
and somehow, I am still there,
exhaling every passing thought.
It was my first time in a city,
my to-do list stretched as long
as a summer night.
In the reflection of a crescent moon,
the city was awake,
like a new bride
wrapped in a gossamer veil of pride.
I wandered, enjoying my strolls;
with each footstep, I heard
the city’s mourning, longing, nostalgia
an ongoing dialogue
with past bliss, pride, and historical honor.
I meandered through lakes, markets, theaters, hospitals,
art deco buildings
each lifting layers of curtains
draped in ancient shadows.
Near Nimatala Ghat,
I almost knocked on the door
of an old home,
its breath collapsing over clotheslines.
The city was an endless labyrinth,
its days of glory folded
like stolen glances
into the hems of its streets.
It stood tall,
a martyr
whose soul
still lived.
***
Laila Brahmbhatt is a writer with roots in Kashmir and Jharkhand, India, who currently lives and works in New York as a senior consultant. She is currently immersing herself in learning Korean, Polish, and Japanese, drawn by her deep admiration for the poetry and literary traditions of these cultures. You can find her on Instagram: @laila_brahmbhatt.
