Whispers of India

New Delhi—An Old Bride

New Delhi
an old bride
that still boasts
to the ancient town.

A city vibrant with life,
wrapped in a veil of dust and smog,
filled with the ceaseless hum of traffic,
the sharp cries of honking horns.

March marks the end of the tourist season,
yet the city extends its invitation—
vast, with its millions upon millions of lives,
resilient, relentless, unyielding.

Staying in a five-star hotel,
wrapped in the trappings of luxury,
we dare to step beyond
its polished Western disguise.

The real city lurks just outside,
its face raw and unfiltered.
Life flows in waves—
harsh, ruthless, unapologetic.
Haunting eyes stare,
challenging us to look back,
yet we hesitate.

The shame of being an outsider,
the fear of facing their scarcity,
makes us drift through them—
unseen, unseeing.

A beggar or two on a street—one can numb oneself to that.
But here, numbing takes more.
It demands surrendering a piece of your sanity
until you retreat to the refuge of your hotel.

Smiles greet us—
warm, practiced, uncertain.
Are they genuine?
Or do they wait for a tip
that may or may not reach their hands?

The sensory overload is inevitable.
Two glasses of cheap wine,
smuggled into the hotel from a nearby shop,
help dull the edges.
A cigarette by the pool
completes the illusion.

For a moment, we pretend we are home.
That life, as we know it, can go on.

We are here for a wedding.
Six events over three days—
an escape into rituals and spectacle,
a showcase of how life could be different.

Dressed in local attire,
we admire our reflection,
though the fabric screams, “borrowed.”
Still, it makes a good selfie.

Are these people happy?
Hard to tell.

Are they living the life they deserve?

The questions linger,
floating in the mind,
unanswered.

The Tale of Two Nations

A glimpse
of the Taj Mahal
through its grand gate
took our breath away.

A sense of pride
struck my heart—
Momtaz, who rests in peace,
was Persian.

A great Mughal emperor,
a devoted lover,
ordered a monument—
to remember and to be remembered.

But wait—
how could a Mughal emperor
create something
so exquisite?

Our memory of the Mongols
is one of ashes—
burning, slaughtering,
razing civilizations to the ground.

They conquered and ruled Persia.
All books were burned,
mosques torn down,
cities flattened.

And yet, in India, they saw a hero.
They unified a fractured land,
built mosques,
wove Persian culture into its fabric.

Here, they are remembered
as emperors who ruled a vast empire,
the ones who rebuilt
a broken nation of a hundred kings.

But in Iran, they remain invaders
the ones who demolished
what little remained
from past conquerors.

Two nations, one tribe.
A legacy divided—
a story told
by ruins and monuments.

The Union

A cheerful glow in yellow,
under the midday sun,
bathed in light, colors, and petals,
dancing, swaying in the joy of union.

Laughter rises, weaving bliss into the sky,
the sun envies the golden hues of their robes.
A ritual interwoven with songs and melodies,
the bride’s joy—pure, unguarded.

A feast of abundance, lavish and rich,
flavors lined up in eager invitation,
plates overflowing with fulfillment,
a table untouched by sacrifice.

A spectacle of light,
dancers twirling, voices soaring,
heralding the joy of union
in every breath, in every moment.

The celebration of union,
a beautiful translation of love,
the tale of two becoming one,
a new chapter in an ancient book.

Solace in Chaos

Unsettled in a car,
unnerving traffic.
Yielding is not part of the plan—
whoever gets the way first, wins the battle.
Yet the war of wheels looms on.

Ceaseless honking.
Small bikes with truck horns,
a symphony of sound—
nonstop, unapologetic, unorchestrated.

I retreat into my mind,
seeking some order.
I reach into my bag for a pill—
to tolerate the chaos.

Motorbikes, tricycles,
a pedestrian darting across,
a slow horse cart in the speed lane—
unbothered, unhurried.

A jeep stuffed with twenty passengers.
A truck barreling the wrong way.
Yet everyone is purposeful, determined—
men with missions.

But the driver—he is calm.
He cuts others off—calm.
They cut him off—calm.
No cursing. No anger.
No honking in rage.
No honking in protest.
No honking in insult.
Just playing his part
in the symphony.

The sun is setting on the horizon,
clearly tired of its day job.
A half-orange cloud
roving gently with the breeze—
unbothered by the honking,
unmoved by the traffic and crowd.

In a colorful play,
it dances softly with the last rays of the sun.

And yet—how alike they are.
Incontrovertible.
A solace in the sky,
and a solace in the driver’s seat.

A divine solace,
not cut from the cloth of mere tolerance.
This is acceptance.

A land of many kings, many gods—
yet India remains one nation.
More than a miracle.
The magic of acceptance.

If the world seeks to unite,
if it hopes to move beyond its divisions,
there remains one recipe:
Acceptance.