Delhiwale: An ode to this time of the year

Delhi's pollution looms as a young writer reflects on a suffocating city in his poem, expressing a deep, tender rage against time and existence.

Blue sky, fresh air. But the panorama is coated in dust—see photo. The smoggy Delhi scene was actually snapped this weekend.

The extreme pollution that strangles the capital at this time of the year is threatening to return. (HT Photo)

The extreme pollution that strangles the capital at this time of the year is threatening to return. That’s not the reason why Mukul left the city last week for his other home in the clearer air of Dehradun. The young writer attributes it to other reasons. Whatever, he wrote a poem at his “Jamnapaar” Dilli residence as his response to “a resigned, helpless rage… in a city suffocated, gasping for breath….“ He agrees to share it with us.

How Tender Is This Wrath of Time

The swollen, oily, wrinkly face of an ageing mother,

polluted landscapes of a dying city,

hellos and goodbyes of a recent-widower

walking past the mystery of a suicide.

This wrath, a rustling, numbing quietude.

When winter comes it comes on the few of us.

While the spring-farers make merry

in their picturesque dreams,

we cheer ourselves in the innocence of mundane happiness.

In chit-chats and the amusement of politics.

Throw us your spit, you movers-and-shakers of society, and that will be our good news.

What are we to find in life?

Some insurance policies, some lottery stocks;

some equity shares in our own lives.

About enough to pay the Interest on Existence;

about enough to celebrate some ripples of passing time.

How tender is this wrath of time.

How tender is our wrath against it.

How tender this anger!

For few can remain angry without consuming themselves in its fire.

And the ones that burn are only used for warmth,

not for light out of this tender winter darkness.

Close the gates of this mine, you do-gooders and go-getters, and let us not escape.

Let us die in these pits.

Bodies falling from buildings,

hanging from our ceilings,

paying interests, buying equity,

breathing poison, consuming our lives.

One passing moment after another.

And do not worry, you winners and achievers,

murdering our time will not injure your eternity.

We will simply pass over to the tender, rustling, numbing quietude of wherever it is that Time goes.