 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
|
|
Necropolis
1: Day
In the pitiless sunlight
idiots, philistines, riffraff--
like gleeful maggots,
swarm this place;
they are the citizenry of this city,
dressed up as tourists
for a weekend outing.
The vanity of their ancestors
is suitably rewarded;
the populace tramples over the bones of kings
illustrating the brotherhood of mankind.
At sunset the dead begin to stir,
kept in check only by watchmen
and lunatics. They laugh,
play, and exchange gossip;
the silent trees and sleeping birds,
bear witness.
2: Soiree Medieval
The tomb has been decorated;
the Festival of France,
in the hall of the dead.
A medieval setting for medieval music
however alien--
in the candle-light even the atmosphere
is just right.
A hired Hyderabadi courtier
pays obeisance to the dead
to salve our conscience,
but his hands and heart
are both false as he places a rose
ceremoniously on the stone slab.
Then the music begins;
West penetrates the East.
The cognoscenti of the city
are easily pleased
by the array of outdated
instruments--the kids love
the good old hurdy-gurdy.
My companions are busy otherwise
checking out the audience--
one eyes the boys, the other
ogles at the women on display;
I only smile at the familiar faces.
The few Europeans in our midst
are a nice decoration;
white skin looks good
in dark shades of cotton.
The musician, unfortunately,
is dull; his music is all dead.
and we decide not to wait
for the dance after the interval.
3: Night
We leave everyone behind
and like lost souls,
embrace the night.
The city of the dead is haunted
by memories that hide
underneath the tombstones
in subterranean catacombs,
sulking during the day,
only waiting to get up
and come out at night.
From here, the city
looks ghostly, unreal,
a remote haze of lights
under a pall of gloom.
We hear no urban noises
and the dead disallow
inane chatter: how irrelevant
are the words of the living
and these cluttered selves
that we drag about
like unclean bowels.
The moon is high, revealing
the decrepit dome of the mausoleum
like a diseased breast.
Bats squeak and scurry back and forth
in their bizarre nightly rituals.
4: The Return of the Dead
I start the car;
at the first twist of the key,
it cranks irreverently.
My admiration of Japanese technology.
is simultaneously revived.
The headlights startle a sleeping dog.
At Toli Chowki,
we were reduced to the dust
from whence we came,
but Mehdipatnam gives us back
our flawed selves.
Nothing is ever finished;
everything comes back to life again.
No city lives
without the return of the dead.
