For Lucknow- my muse, my whore, my beloved

And slowly and slowly, an old city dies.
You watch,
sometimes through sepia tinted windows,
sometimes standing on apartment balconies.

Puffing a cigarette concomitantly
and watching-

the old city walls getting torn down,
for high rise buildings,
muddy red and yellow paint,
laying siege to a sparkling- in your face- white.

the taanpura's wood,
laying siege to termites in the attic,

old ghazal cassettes,
tape recorders,
radios,
muted permanently
by loudspeakers blaring in automotives

old books, treasured erstwhile,
sold to junk dealers in kg's.
Pale pages used to retain history within their folds earlier,
the same history engulfs them now.

You close your eyes for a second
and see,
the soul of the old city getting gnawed at,
continuously,
the cityscape twirling,
from elaichi chai on the second alley to fancy brewed coffee.

You hear the raindrops falling,
they dont patter on tinsheds now,
they patter on patios.