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Identity

This winter has taken a lot from him.
The saffron blanket,
And the green chataai.
He has seen Pari go,
And Parveen never came back.
Between Namaaz and chants
He used to make his own collage.
His friends tell him,
They just don’t play either anymore.
On the mic far away,
And among his whispering friends,
They note down numbers.
One such belongs to him.
On an empty footpath,
With nothing to lose
And no one to care for,
Jai Singh Hind murmurs his number
And sleeps cuddling himself.
He sees dreams,
One day he won’t be 1789771,
And the footpath will still be his.


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