Sonam C
Delhi
After Rafael Campo’s California
I used to dream of living there, I used
to carry tons of bags to claim spaces
that I wish were mine when barricades and
tight securities meant patrolling in
places I considered free, I was left
to ponder exits and entry points in
case our hostels were attacked, in case an
intolerant grabbed hold of my door, or
thrash’d glasses on the floor, I slept with eyes
wide awake, on some other days stood
staring at vacant sky, as fear clinked tight like choker on my neck, nobody knew how
to stay calm, perhaps the corridors knew my hushed steps, or the moon heard my silent wailings,
as this was nothing like the Delhi my sister told me about, partial truth never
filled emptiness except new meanings of suffering, I thought how foolish was I
to think of escaping to Delhi, when
others think of running to the mountains,
I chose Dilli- of poets and mystiques- and
am left answering its weather, the
hues at night time. In nostalgic moorings,
I remember how this city welcomed me,
right now as I look outside at sunset
and moonshine, I recall Delhi's kindness
in welcoming wanderers, and half poets
like me. I wonder if these thoughts had
occurred, if hell hadn't broken loose, if
I was able to close some doors and begin
exploring new baroque windows. I am
imagining incidents, I see myself dreaming
of forging a new mountain tale, of
staying hopeful of living in Delhi again.
An elegy (visual poetry)
I
have always
wondered how my parents saw
the mountains as their own, curious of their abilities
to care for them as if they were siblings. Heights incomparable,
dark green cover filled with junipers, juxtaposed with another range of pictures,
the mountains look vertical in pictures and real-life, one mistake and off you go down
the aisle of death. I have always
wondered why deities filled the voids, in our hearts and
forested zones, perhaps they had forecasted a death bigger than the extinction of their kind. When the mountains were cut and tunnels strewn, my mother
didn't cry as she did when her cattle died, but whenever we crossed the tunnel, we always turned the window up, to avoid the stench that smelled like carcass
of the mountains we once loved. I have always wondered if we’ll ever get the chance to roll down the windows and slap fresh air across our faces; alas, it is one
of my dreams that'll never come true.
About the writer:
Sonam C (Instagram- @_s.tsomo_ ) belongs to the hills. She is currently a postgraduate student of literature at JNU, Delhi. She surprises people with her love for the mountains, food, dance and anime.